


The Sins of the Father

by thepolyhedron



Series: All in the Family [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Abigail Hobbs - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Hannibal, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M, Murder Family, Possessive Hannibal, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, au where hannibal is will's biological father, hannibal is a bad dad, kind of kidfic?, will graham needs help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepolyhedron/pseuds/thepolyhedron
Summary: As though surviving childhood with an empathy disorder isn't difficult enough, Will Graham has a secret- he's the illegitimate son of Hannibal Lecter, the notorious serial killer. Already rejected by his peers and regarded with suspicion or concern by the authority figures in his life, another surprise might send him over the edge- Jack Crawford wants him to speak to his father.A very AU work in which a young Will Graham ends up working with the police to catch killers.





	1. He Has Your Eyes

His first memory starts with his mother’s disappointment. He can still see her face so clearly- even then he could tell what that look meant. Disappointment.  
He’d been at school that day- he was only five years old. Kindergarten, he supposed. He’d- drawn something. He didn’t remember what, but he did remember that it was the second time in as many weeks that she’d been called to his school to pick him up.  


Her hand was tight around his own, tight enough to hurt, but he didn’t say anything. He keeps his gazed fixed on the ground, not looking up to see the disapproving set of her face as the teacher relates to her why she was called in. A paper with rudimentary, childish scrawls gets passed between them, depicting in a child’s hand figures in various states of distress- some bleeding, some crying. He fidgets nervously in his mother’s grip.  


He doesn’t really understand why he’s in trouble, if he’s being honest- he only put to paper the things he saw on the television, the things the people with words scrawling beneath them spoke about in solemn voices with serious faces. He wants to understand why these things have happened- why people got hurt, died (from his vague understanding of death), and why people feel the way they do about it.  


But the next thing he knows his teacher has stopped talking, and his mother is speaking in rushed, conciliatory tones, reassuring promises that she’ll speak to him, that this won’t happen again, that she’s so sorry for the trouble. His teacher responds sympathetically, and- he realizes- with not a small amount of pity.  


She feels sorry, the boy understands. Sorry for my mother, That she has to deal with- this. Me.  


Goodbyes are exchanged quickly, and before the boy knows what’s happening he’s being pulled through the school hallways and out of the building, trailing slightly behind.  


“Mom?” He asks, and she flinches almost imperceptibly. “Shouldn’t I go back to class?”  


Her jaw tightens and she shakes her head, not looking at him as she helps him into the car.  


“You’ve been sent home for the day,” she mutters, buckling him in. “Again. For the second time in two weeks.”  


He says nothing in response- even without his unusual capacity for empathy, he would be able to sense the tension in her voice, barely restrained anger.  


The ride home is awful, alternating between silence and reprimands. Not for the first time, the boy feels fortunate that he lives close to the school.  


Upon arriving at their small house, the boy walks to his room without being asked, closing the door behind him.  


His room is small- hardly more than the size of a walk-in closet, his twin bed taking up most of the space. Despite this, the room has become something of a safe haven from him- a place he   
can go to be left alone, a place he doesn’t have to deal with the constant, overwhelming emotions of everyone around him. The best part, his favorite thing about the room, is that it’s crammed full of books- they fill every empty space, piled on the windowsill, overflowing the bookshelves his father built to hold them all.  


Some books are things his parents bought him, when they could scrape together spare money- age appropriate things, though he tries to push this limit as much as possible, always wanting the books that older children read. Others are library books, from the local library, the school library- wherever. The librarians adore him, he knows- the precocious young boy that always comes in alone and leaves the same way. They worry about him, too.  


He grabs one of these books now, clutching it to his chest and climbing on to the bed- holding onto it more for comfort than anything else, the way other children might clutch a stuffed animal.  


He thinks of his mother. She doesn’t like him- this isn’t something he thinks in a fit of emotion, but a fact- his mother simply doesn’t like him. It hurts- everyone else, he knows, have mothers that love them. The characters in his books so often have that too. Oh, she tried to love him- he knows she did. She just didn’t succeed.  


All the things he can understand, but he can’t work out why she feels as she does about him. It bothers him- her hurtful words that occasionally slip out stinging him more and more.  


At some point, he opens his book and begins to read- the words don’t stick in his head, though. He reads them, but they don’t make sense- it’s like reading in a different language. He can’t focus. From the other room he hears his mother moving around, dishes being rearranged- she must be cooking.  


She never calls him. The sun is down before he hears the front door open again, his dad finally arriving home. He burrows deeper under the covers as he hears the sound of their hushed voices, silently praying that they won’t call for him.  


“Will?” Of course, it doesn’t work out that way. His father’s voice calls his name, sounding weary.  


He steps out of his room. From here he can see his parents in the living room, both standing. His mother’s arms are crossed, while his father has a more relaxed posture. He bites his lower lip, making his way forward as slowly as he dares. His mother only seems to grow more irritated.  


“Come here, Will,” she snaps, foot tapping harshly against the floor. “Tell your father what happened today.”  


He fixes his eyes on the ground, unable to take the emotion in her eyes. He hears his father crouch down on one knee.  


“Will,” his father’s voice is gentle, kindly. Speaking carefully as though fearful of starling him away like a spooked animal. “Your mother says you were sent home from school again today.”  


He nods silently, and he feels but doesn’t see his father’s frown.  


“Look at me, Will,” he looks up to meet his father’s eyes. There’s no anger in them- eternally patient. That is his father’s gift. “Can you tell me what happened?”  


Will bites his lower lip, thinking his words through carefully.  


“I-” he starts off. “I drew a picture- that’s what we were supposed to be doing, and the teacher said-”  


“He was drawing pictures of, as he told the teacher, ‘murders’,” his mother interrupts. His father’s frown deepens.  


“Why were you doing that, Will?” His father’s voice doesn’t falter, even as his mother’s face twists in disgust.  


“I- I wanted…” he shakes his head. “I wanted to understand why the man on the TV did what he did.”  


“The man on the TV? You mean… what was his name?” His father glances back at his mother. “Buddish?”  


“What does it matter?” She snaps. “This is not normal behavior Edric, and it needs to stop.”  


His father sighs. “And drawing pictures of… ‘murders’ helps you understand?”  


“I- I think so,” he answers.  


“You shouldn’t want to understand,” his mother says, looking thoroughly upset. “You shouldn’t- understand people like that! Especially not at your age! What’s wrong with you, William?”  


Her words come out in a burst of emotion, and Will can see tears welling up in her eyes. He starts crying in response to her distress, a combination of- fear anger regret- washing over him.  


His father stands quickly.  


“Jesus, Sarah, don’t say that! Will, go to your room, okay?”  


He doesn’t need to be told twice; he runs off before his mother can stop him- slamming his door behind him.  


He falls asleep that night to the sound of his parents yelling.  


When he wakes up, his mother is gone.  
*****  


His next vivid memory is just a year later- exactly one year. He knows it’s the anniversary of his mother’s departure- not because he recognizes the date, but because he can see it in his father’s eyes, in his behavior. Sadness, worry, concern- he treats his son better that day than usual, taking him to the bookstore, getting him ice cream, even letting him skip school. It’s like he’s hoping to distract him- it doesn’t work. Not when his eyes are like that.  


Will doesn’t say anything, though. Too afraid of messing up, of disappointing his father like he did his mother.  


And when he can just block out his father’s distress, it’s the perfect day.  


In the end, it’s not him that ruins it.  


He runs into the living room- earlier in the day he was trying to remember the name of something, some dinosaur that he was trying to tell his father about, and he’s found it now in one of his new books. He runs to tell him- but he stops instantly once he sees him.  


His father sits on his chair, directly across from the television, leaned forward as though having trouble seeing the picture on the screen, as though trying to take in every detail. His hands are on his face, covering his mouth, and for the first time Will has trouble identifying the emotion that registers on his face.  


The book in his arms falls to his side.  


“Dad?”  


He sees the figure on the television- it’s the first time he’ll see him over the course of many months as a lengthy, public trial ensues. A gaunt, pale figure, with blond hair streaking across his forehead.  


When he looks at him, he sees death- death in his eyes, blood on his hands.  


His father starts up when he hears his voice, switching off the television.  


“Will! Go to your room, okay?”  


His father’s voice is- surprised, and firm, but not angry. Will walks back to his room, casting backwards glances at the man on the television as he goes.  


He sees his eyes as he tries to go to bed that night.  


He doesn’t sleep well.


	2. From Whence He Came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edric Graham does his best.

He dreams vividly for the first time that night- dreams of eyes like chips of gray ice, cold and hard, dreams of blood that stains his hands, of running through a forest. There’s something chasing him, and no matter how hard he runs it keeps pace, growing ever closer. He screams out, but no one hears.  


He bolts awake with that same scream caught in his throat, drenched in sweat. He gasps for breath, on the verge of hyperventilating, momentarily forgetting where he is. He trembles helplessly.  


Heavy footfalls sound in the hall outside his door, and the next thing he knows his father is beside him.  


He thinks his father calls out his name, and then his father’s arm wrap around him, anchoring him.  


Slowly his breathing steadies- he sees sunlight streaming through the window, pale and thin. It’s early.  


His father pulls him into his lap, carding a hand through his damp hair soothingly.  


“What happened, Will?” His father speaks softly, and he buries his head in his father’s firm chest. “You screamed.”  


His father presses a hand to his forehead as he speaks as though checking his temperature.  


“I- I-” his words seem to choke him. “Nightmare,” he coughs out. His father rubs his back soothingly.  


“You’re alright,” he murmurs.  


The memory of the dream is already fading, the specifics slipping away like sand through his fingers. The feeling remains, though- the feeling of fear, fear and- curiously, excitement.  


“You okay to go to school today, buddy?” His father asks. Will nods weakly, and his father sighs, standing and placing him back on the bed.  


“Better get ready, then. I’m gonna go finish breakfast, alright?” He nods again, pulling his blanket up to his chest as though a shield. His father give him another concerned look, gaze lingering, but walks out without protest. Guiltily, he feels better once he’s gone- his concern, his overwhelming emotion was suffocating.  


He dresses quickly that morning, running a brush through his hair just once- trying to control his curls is more often than not a futile endeavor. He brushes his teeth thoroughly, and when his spits, it’s stained slightly pink- blood. He must have bit himself during his nightmare- now that he notices it, his cheek throbs.  


He’s surprised when he walks into the kitchen to see plates laid out on the table, piled high with eggs and bacon. His father normally is gone for work before Will leaves for school- so this is the second day in a row he’s not going in.  


“You made breakfast?” He asks as he settles in his seat at the table.  


His father nods, smiling at him from across the table. His smile seems strained somehow- Will wonders if it has to do with his nightmare, or with what happened last night.  


The man’s eyes still haunt him- and it’s only just now that he realizes why. They were a mask- where most people’s eyes seemed to reveal everything, all their emotions, whether they wanted to or not, his revealed nothing. If most’s eyes were doorways, his were walls.  


“Who was that man?” He asks abruptly, picking at his eggs. He doesn’t want to be rude- and the food does look good- but he finds he doesn’t have much of an appetite. His father tenses, though he seems to make a conscious effort to relax.  


“Which man?” His father’s voice is carefully measured. Will knows that he knows who he’s talking about.  


“The man that was on the TV when you sent me out of the room,” he answers matter-of-factly. His father fiddles with a napkin.  


“A bad man,” he responds simply.  


“Why is he bad?”  


His father shakes his head, strained. “It’s… grown up stuff, Will.”  


Will scowls down at his plate, and his father sighs.  


“He killed people,” his father says after a period of silence. “A lot of people.”  


“Oh,” Will looks thoughtful. “Is that why he was on TV?”  


His father nods. “Yes, that’s it. He was… caught just recently, so he’s going to be on the news a lot.”  


“What’s his name?”  


He looks up from his plate- still barely touched- and over at his father, who’s steadfastly looking away.  


“...Hannibal Lecter,” his father sighs. Will fidgets in his seat.  


“That’s a weird name,” he comments. “I don’t like him.”  


His father finally looks at him again, lips quirking up in a half-smile. “Because he has a weird name?”  


“No!” Will protests, scowling again. “Because of his eyes.”  


“His… eyes?” His dad asks, frowning slightly in confusion. Will nods.  


“They’re scary. They’re not like most people’s,” he confides. His dad just shakes his head.  


“Well, he’s not like most people,” he responds.  


Will looks away. “Are you not going to work today?” He changes the subject, hoping to distract his father. The topic is clearly making him uncomfortable- he doesn’t want to mess up again. He must’ve messed up with his mom- otherwise she wouldn’t have left.  


His father smiles. “Not today. I’m taking off for today and tomorrow. Had some old vacation days,” he explains. “Figured I might as well use them.”  


His father frowns at his still mostly-full plate. “Not hungry, buddy?” Will shakes his head, and his father picks up his plate. “Well, just make sure to eat a big lunch,” he says, carrying it to the sink.  


“Dad,” he calls out, a sudden dark worry entering into his mind. “Are you okay?”  


His father looks up, surprised. “Of course, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, bud,” he says with a smile. “There’s just something I need to take care of real quickly, that’s all.”  


Will nods sagely, deciding not to push his father for more information. He doubts he’ll get any.  


“You want a ride to school, bud?” His father asks distantly, and he shakes his head, already slinging his backpack over his shoulder.  


He could use the walk.  


*****  
Ever since his mom left, Will has taken up walking to and from school. He likes the walk- his path takes him through a largely wooded area that, while perhaps not large enough to be considered a forest, still has a stillness about it only found in nature. It gives him time to think, time away from the cloying emotions of others. His father was hesitant to allow him to walk alone at first, but buses don’t have any stops near them because of how close they live and more often than not his father is already at work, unable to drive him. He’s gotten more used to the idea, after months of uneventful walks.  


Which is why Will is so surprised to see his car as he exits the school building.  


It’s parked right in front of the school building, lined up with the rest of the parents’ cars. His is noticeably more worn than the rest of them, beaten down but still running. His dad waves at him as he walks out.  


“Hey kiddo,” his dad’s voice is chipper as he gets in the car. “How was school?”  


Will shrugs. “It was alright. It was boring.”  


“Yeah?” His dad asks. “I remember thinking the same thing when I was your age. Just wait til you get to high school,” he jokes.  


Will stares out the window silently. He’s not good at talking- interacting with others at all isn’t his strong suit. Even his own father. After a while, Will notices his father is driving in the direction directly opposite their house.  


“Dad? Where are we going?” He asks immediately. A brief flash of- is that guilt?- crosses his face, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the road.  


“To the doctor’s, Will,” he answers shortly, eyes flitting over to his son just briefly before returning to the road.  


Will fidgets in his seat, uncomfortable. He hates the doctor’s- they poke and prod you, and ask such weird questions that he doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t feel sick- is his dad sick?  


“Are you sick, dad?” he inquires, genuinely concerned. His dad chuckles.  


“No, kiddo, we just need to get a DNA sample. From you,” he adds as an afterthought.  


“A DNA sample?” Will parrots. “Is it going to hurt?”  


His father shakes his head. “Not at all- they’re just going to swab your cheek with a little cotton swab.”  


“Oh,” Will pauses, thinking. “But why do they have to take a DNA sample?”  


His dad tenses- not slightly either. It would be obvious to Will even were he not so empathetic. He turns the wheel stiffly- pulling into their local doctor’s parking lot.  


“It’s complicated, Will,” he says, putting the car into park. He turns to face his son, making direct eye contact- something he usually avoids, knowing Will’s aversion to it. “I promise, if it becomes important, I’ll let you know, okay?”  


Will hesitates- normally, he would probably push farther. He hates having information withheld from him because of his age- but something about his father’s tone tells him to stop.  


He nods slightly. “Alright, dad.”  


Seemingly satisfied, his father steps out of the car, walking around to help Will out.  


The pair walk into the office together, his father’s hand tight around his own. The interior is clinical- white walls, a front desk, and a simple waiting area. The color in the room is minimal- most of it coming from the magazines set out on one of the tables, which look like they haven’t been touched in all the years they’ve been there. The whole place is infested with an odd sterile smell that makes Will wrinkle his nose.  


The woman behind the counter looks up disinterestedly as the pair walks in.  


“Do you have an appointment, sir?” she asks, voice dripping with boredom. Will shifts uncomfortably- being around people at the best of times can be unpleasant for him- it’s even worse when they themselves don’t want to be there.  


His father just nods politely. “Yes, we have an appointment with Doctor Andres? Um, I’m Edric Graham.”  


“Oh,” the woman seems to perk up, suddenly more interested, looking over him and Will. Will squirms under the sudden attention. “Yes, he mentioned you would be coming, you’re right on time. Is this him?” She gestures toward Will, who stands indignant at being spoken of like he isn’t there.  


His father nods warily. “Yes, this is my son, Will. Is Doctor Andres…?”  


The woman nods quickly. “He’s not seeing anyone right now- I’ll just go get him for you.” She takes one last look at Will, with a look of- curiosity, distaste, (disgust?)- before disappearing behind a door behind the desk.  


It seems to only take a few seconds for the doctor himself to appear from behind another, different door- which, Will realizes, is odd. All of his past experience with going to the doctor’s involved long waits, and it was always a nurse who came to get them.  


Doctor Andres’s gaze comes to rest on Will’s father. “Ah, you must be Mr. Graham!” he exclaims, walking over to them and extending a hand. They shake hands, and quick greetings are exchanged. Then the doctor looks at him.  


“And you must be William,” the doctor extends his hand to him as well, and he takes it tentatively. “How are you doing to day, Will?”  


Will bites his lower lip. Curiously, he’s found, when people ask you how your day has been, they don’t really want an answer- you’re supposed to respond that you’ve had a good day, regardless of the truth.  


“I’m good,” he says, trying his best to appear healthy in hopes of minimizing whatever shots the doctor might want to give him.  


The doctor nods- his entire demeanor when he speaks to Will, he notices with some annoyance, is patronizing.  


“If you two will come with me,” he says, looking back and forth between the two of them. “We have a room open.”  


He ushers them back through the door he entered the lobby from, and down an even more clinical hallway into a small room- the kind doctor’s use for check-ups.  


“Hop up, Will,” the doctor commands, patting the odd bed covered in a paper sheet. Will looks to his father, who nods, before following the doctor’s orders. The paper crinkles beneath him as he climbs up, even as he tries to be delicate.  


The doctor stands in front of him- he has kind eyes, Will thinks, but a business-like demeanor. He’s seen many patients before, and he’ll see many more.  


“Alright Will, do you know what you’re here for?” the doctor asks. Will nods.  


“Dad said you needed a DNA sample,” he replies, pleased at having known the answer to the doctor’s question.  


“That’s right,” the doctor nods. “We’re just going to take this-” he holds up a long cotton swab. “-and scrape it against the inside of your cheek to get a sample,” he explains.  


He walks over to a table and pulls a pair of plastic gloves out of a tub, yanking them on efficiently.  


“What are you testing for?” Will asks, swinging his legs.  


The doctor and his father exchange a look, and his father shakes his head. The doctor turns back to Will, swab in hand.  


“That’s for your parents to tell you, William,” he sees his father flinch slightly at the use of ‘parents’. “Open your mouth wide, alright?”  


The swab is painless- it tickles more than anything, and it’s over quickly, the doctor tucking it back into a sealed plastic container.  


“We’ll get this sent in for testing right away,” the doctor tells his father. “You’ve already gotten the other sample?”  


His father nods, glancing sideways at Will. “Yes- the man I spoke to said he’d take care of it. When can we expect results?”  


The doctor hums thoughtfully. “Given the nature of your situation, you might receive them at a faster than normal pace, but normally it takes up to a week.”  


“A week,” his father repeats, an odd emotion crossing his face.  


The doctor nods again. “I’ll get this sent as fast as possible,” he reiterates, holding the swab. “Now, do you have any questions for me beforehand?”  


After a pause, his father shakes his head. “No, thank you very much, Doctor Andres.”  


The doctor inclines his head. “Think nothing of it.”  


Some more pleasantries are exchanged, and on his way out the doctor gives Will a sucker- the only consistently good part of doctor’s visits. He sucks on it as he walks out the door, feeling thoroughly confused.  


For the first time in a while, he really doesn’t understand what’s happening. Having such an insight into the emotions and motives of others, he’s usually able to draw conclusions about situations before they’re given to him- but now, he really has no idea what this is all about.  


The woman at the front desk watches as they walk out.  


*****  
Life goes on as normal for Will for the next week or so- he goes to school, and his dad goes back to work. His father seems more nervous than usual, but that’s all. It makes Will nervous just to be around him, the way he seems to fill the very air around him with a kind of anxious energy.  


They’re watching television when the phone rings- his father has on some inane show about fishing, and Will ignores it in favor of the book he holds. His father all but jumps out of his seat when he hears the ring, and he disappears into the next room. Will watches him go.  


Once he’s gone, Will creeps as quietly as possible to the door he disappeared through and presses an ear to it.  


His father’s talking- he catches his half of the conversation.  


“I- I see,” his father’s voice is muffled through the layer of wood. “There’s no chance a mistake was made?” Silence. “I see.” A pause. “Should I tell him?” More quiet. “I just don’t want to scare him,” his father protests. If Will strains, he thinks he can just make out the sound of the other voice- so muffled as to be nonsense to him. It goes on for a while, and his father sighs. “No, no, you’re right,” his father replies- and his voice suddenly sounds less muffled, and before Will can react the door he’s pressed against is opened, causing him to tumble to the ground at his father’s feet.  


His father, understandably, stares at him in some surprise, and, after a moment, some amusement, phone still in his hand. The other voice asks something.  


“No, no, I’m still here,” his father says to the man on the phone, seemingly trying to suppress laughter. “It seems like Will was trying to listen in on us, is all.”  


Will does hear laughter this time, from the other end of the phone, and his face heats up.  


“I better go,” his father says. “Yes, I understand, I’ll be in contact.” He pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up, before looking down at where his son still sits on the ground, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “It’s considered rude to listen in on other people’s conversations, you know,” he chastises.  


Will looks at the ground, abashed. “Sorry dad.”  


His father shakes his head, snorting. “What am I going to do with you, Will?” he says with no hostility in his voice. “Come on,” he helps him to his feet. “There’s…” he pauses. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. Let’s sit down.”  


His father leads the way back into the living room, flicking the television off quickly and settling onto the couch rather than his usual chair, setting Will’s book aside. Will settles in next to him.  


He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He looks tired, Will realizes. There are bags under his eyes, and a weariness set deep into his face.  


“Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?” Will demands. His father nods slowly, his face falling even further. He takes Will’s hand.  


“Before I tell you, Will, I want you to know that I love you, okay?” Will nods warily, and his father plows on. “You’re my son, no matter what, and I love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”  


“What’s going on, dad?” Will’s scared now.  


His father sighs heavily. “The reason we needed to take your DNA… we needed to find out who your… your biological father is.”  


“Biological?” Will asks.  


“Some people,” his dad explains. “Have multiple parents, Will- the one’s that raise them, and the ones that are related to them.”  


Will lets the information sink in. “So you and… and mom-” his dad flinches. “-you aren’t related to me?”  


His father shakes his head. “Your mother… is related to you, yes. I’m not. But you’re my son,” he repeats firmly. “Blood relation doesn’t matter.”  


Will feels numb all over- confused and upset. Not at his father, though- his emotions are rather directed at some unknown, abstract thing. “Then… who…?”  


He’s unable to finish his thought, but his father knows what he wants to ask. “Before you were born,” he starts heavily. “Your mother went on a trip to Europe. It was with her family- her sister wanted to take her to see the sights. She- met a man there, and... “ He bites his lower lip, trying to think of a way to explain. “He’s your biological father.”  


“Who is he?” Will asks. He wants to meet this other man- this unknown father. He feels a primal urge to know from where he came- not to replace his real father, of course. No one could replace the man that raised him. Is raising him.  


“He was a doctor,” his father explains, speech slow.  


“Like Doctor Andres?” Will asks. His father shakes his head.  


“No, Doctor Andres deals with physical illnesses- your- biological father,” he seems to force the words out. “Was a psychiatrist. Do you know what that is?”  


Will nods. “But what is his name?”  


His father looks away, his grip tightening slightly. “You know that who you’re related to doesn’t define who you are, right?” Will nods stubbornly, but his father remains silent for a while.  


“What is his name?”  


“Hannibal Lecter,” his dad whispers, not looking at him. Will feels his stomach flip, nausea rising up within him- a vision of pale grey eyes like walls flashing through his mind’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, two chapters in as many days! This pace probably won't keep up once we get further in, but during the establishing phase chapters will probably come out quicker. I do hope to keep at least one chapter per week coming out as long as interest remains. Once again, please give me your feedback- I love hearing from people! Let me know if you guys are enjoying this.


	3. Birds of a Feather

“The man on the TV,” Will states weakly. His father nods.  


“Yes, the man on the TV,” his father whispers. “But you’re still my son, Will.”  


Will doesn’t hear him- he feels numb, and scared. He doesn’t quite understand what it means to be biologically related to someone, but he knows that being related to Lecter is bad- something he doesn’t want.  


Will doesn’t know how long he sits there on that couch- time doesn’t mean anything to him right now. His father sits with him the whole time, hand in hand.  


*****  


For the next year, Will follows the story of Hannibal Lecter (dubbed ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’ by the media) as closely as he can, even as his father tries to shield him from it. He watches every special, every breaking news update, every interview he can get his hands on. When he can’t do that he settles for taking newspapers from the library, poring over every word and detail of the gruesome string of murders committed by his biological father. He even takes notes on some of them- in a little spiral binder he keeps tucked under his mattress that he prays his father never finds.  


His father made him promise not to reveal his parentage to anyone- a promise he made easily and keeps without difficulty. He’s enough of an outsider already- he doesn’t need people seeing him in relation to that monster in the news. Even though Will himself would vehemently deny his biological father having any impact on his life at all, it’s after the reveal that he really throws himself into learning about criminal psychology. He has a natural aptitude for it, he has to admit.  


During this year his father is called into the school multiple times- though, not for the same reason his mother was. True, his fascination with the macabre has only increased, but he’s learned now to conceal it. Instead, the school has happy news for his father: apparently, Will is something of a child prodigy, having easily aced all of his classes, far surpassing his peers. The school has him tested- and determines that the best place for his current level is middle school level classes. His father pulls him out of the school (at Will’s own urging) and starts him out homeschooling under the watchful eye of one Dr. Alana Bloom, child psychologist and family friend. She’s a teacher in name only- she sets out the basic courses for Will and tests him, but he teaches himself, giving her plenty of time to carry on her work.  


And for a while, life is good. He even befriends one of his neighbors, a girl about his age- Abigail Hobbs.  


No one mentions the subject of his biological father to him- they all dance carefully around it. He can always tell who knows, though- they treat him differently, even if they themselves don’t notice it.  


And then one day, someone new comes into Dr. Bloom’s office.  


He’s sitting in a corner of her office that day- tucked away with a history textbook and a notebook. Dr. Bloom left about an hour ago to go see a patient. He’s focused too intently to hear it at first- but out in the hallway just beyond the office door, two voices compete for dominance.  


Once he does notice, though, it’s all he can hear. He recognizes one voice- Dr. Bloom. The other is a mystery to him. They sound angry.  


He shuts his book slowly, placing it on the desk next to him, before walking out to the hallway.  


Dr. Bloom stands face to face with someone he doesn’t recognize- he can tell that they’re disagreeing from their body language alone. From the look on Dr. Bloom’s face, he can guess that he’s the subject of their argument. Neither of them notice him as he walks out.  


“I said no, Jack, and frankly I’m more than a little upset that I was cut out of this decision!” Dr. Bloom argues.  


“You haven’t been entirely cut out, Alana, but as I told you the boy’s father-”  


“What about my father?” Will interrupts. Both adults turn to look at him, startled.  


“Will!” Dr. Bloom calls out. “Go back into the office, this isn’t your concern.”  


“I beg to differ, Dr. Bloom,” the man- Jack says, raising a hand. “This directly involves him, so of course it’s his concern.”  


“He’s ten years old, Jack!” she protests.  


“Old enough to make decisions for himself,” Jack responds calmly. The man takes a knee, holding his hand out to Will. “You must be William, right?”  


Will nods, walking forward and taking his hand while Dr. Bloom looks on disapprovingly. The man has a firm grip. “Jack Crawford,” the man supplies, shaking his hand. “I was the lead investigator on your father’s case.”  


“My… father?” Will asks, eyes darting over to Dr. Bloom quickly, who shakes her head.  


“He doesn’t think of Lecter as his father, Jack.”  


“You’re the one who caught Dr. Lecter?” Will stares at the man with wide eyes, and he nods.  


“Well, I worked with the one that did,” he explains. “Miriam Lass.”  


Will fidgets. “I heard of her. She… found a drawing, right? A picture of the crime?”  


Crawford nods. “That’s right. Do you know why I’m here, William?”  


Will shakes his head, and Crawford sighs.  


“There are some people,” he explains. “Who want to run a few… psychological tests on you.”  


Will’s eyes widen further. “Do they think I’m like… like Lecter?”  


Crawford shakes his head hurriedly. “No one’s saying that. We just want to know if any of Lecter’s… illnesses, may be hereditary, and how having him as a father has affected you. We want to help you, Will,” he finishes.  


Will looks at Dr. Bloom, who looks uncertain. She bites her lip. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Will.”  


“But,” Crawford interjects. “Mr. Graham- your father- has given his consent.”  


Will just stares at him for a second. The man doesn’t seem uncomfortable under his gaze at all, but rather meets his eyes directly. “What are you asking me?” Will asks in a whisper.  


“Will you consent to psychological testing?” Crawford clarifies.  


It takes Will no time at all to agree.  


*****  


Unstable- after all the rigor of tests and tests and more tests, that’s what they call him. He does everything they ask- answers all their questions honestly, participates in whatever ridiculous exercises they ask him to, even undergoes a brain scan, once. And after everything, he’s deemed unstable.  


So much for his dream of working with the FBI.  


In truth, he’d agreed to the litany of tests because he felt he had something to prove- he wanted, more than anything, to prove that he wasn’t like his father, that he was healthy and sane and they shared nothing but genetics. And now, he feels cheated, in a way. Cheated by his own mind or by the psychiatrists, he doesn’t know.  


He goes through a number of psychiatrists (who they wouldn’t be able to afford normally- it pays to be related to someone famous, Will thinks once in a fit of grim humor), some of whom he storms out of himself and some of whom are simply there for a test or two before they leave forever. His least favorite was Dr. Chilton- he’d been one of the ones performing some of the tests, and Crawford had even tried setting him up as Will’s main psychiatrist for a while. That had ended after one session.  


“I want Doctor Bloom to be my psychiatrist,” he says after that particular session, on the car ride home with his father. His father shakes his head.  


“I asked Jack if that was possible, but he said she wouldn’t be able to remain objective and refused the idea,” his father says warily.  


“So?” Will’s voice brims with anger- not at his father, mind, but his father happens to be the only one nearby. “If it’s not her, then I refuse. I won’t talk to any other psychiatrists anymore. Crawford and his team can find some other kid to harass.”  


“Will!” His father chastises. “That’s enough. Everyone is only trying to help you.”  


Will glares out the window, arms crossed.  


And despite his father’s protests, his next session, and everyone thereafter, happens with Doctor Bloom. Who might be just a slight bit ungracious about it when Crawford comes around.  


Just a bit.  


*****  


“You’re starting school again soon, aren’t you?” Will asks Abigail as they walk beside the stream. It’s a common haunt for the two- both of them find a common peace in nature. Out here, there’s no one to subject Will to more tests, to call him unstable, to look at him in that way just because of his parentage. Out here, Abigail’s father isn’t constantly hovering, her mother isn’t nagging her about anything, her friends aren’t overwhelming her. Out here, they’re free to be themselves.  


The girl sighs and nods. “Just next week. You’re lucky, you know,” she says wistfully. “I’d give anything to be homeschooled.”  


Will shrugs. “It’s nice, sometimes. But it also gives me plenty of time for more tests to be run,” he adds bitterly. “At least I’d have an excuse if I had to be at school.”  


Abigail looks at him in surprise. “What, they’re still ‘testing’ you? Jeez, you’d think they’d find something else to do.”  


Abigail is one of the few normal people (normal meaning unrelated to the investigation) who know about his parentage. He’d confided in her a long time ago, when the secret had seemed as though it were about to burst itself out of him to whoever he saw next. She’d never judged him for it- never betrayed his trust.  


As far as Will was concerned, that made her his best friend.  


“You would think,” Will agrees. He kicks at a stray rock at the ground. “It’s going to get worse soon.”  


“What makes you think that?”  


“I’m about to graduate.”  


“What, high school?” Her eyes widen almost cartoonishly so. “You’re twelve!”  


Will shrugs. “I’ve completed the course work. It doesn’t matter how old I am.”  


“Still, that’s amazing,” Abigail gushes. “Are you going to go to college?”  


Again, Will shrugs. “Not yet. Dad wants me to stick around for a few more years. He doesn’t think a college would be a good environment for me, or something.”  


“I guess that makes sense,” Abigail replies, sounding mildly disappointed. She sighs. “Still, it would’ve been cool to say I knew a twelve year old college student.”  


Will huffs, but privately agrees. “We should come fishing here sometime,” he says, changing the subject.  


“What, here?” Abigail looks at the thin stream. “You really think we’d catch anything?” She asks doubtfully.  


“Do you ever?” He asks, and Abigail laughs.  


“You’re awful,” she punches his shoulder playfully. “You may be the better fisher, but I’ve got you beat when it comes to hunting.”  


Will rolls his eyes, but stops suddenly. “Do you hear that?”  


“Hear what?” She stops a few feet in front of him.  


Another faint sound from the bushes- whimpering? “That,” he repeats, pointing at the bushes.  


He walks forward, and another whimper rings out- yes, it’s definitely there. He pushes aside a few stray branches.  


“Abigail, look!” Will gasps. “A puppy!”  


He reaches toward it- it draws back, but not too far, and Will frowns. “He’s injured,” he comments, letting the dog sniff his hand before going to pick it up. The dog has a cut running down one of its hind legs, long crusted over with dried blood. It’s thin, too- dangerously so.  


“We have to take him back to a vet,” Will says. Abigail looks at the dog- who now seems quite content in Will’s arms.  


“Do you think your dad will let you keep him?” she asks.  


Will looks at the dog mournfully. “Probably not,” he admits. “He’s always said no in the past- but this guy needs to get to a vet.” He starts walking quickly off in the direction they came, and Abigail follows.  


“How are things with your dad?” He asks, making conversation on the walk. She shrugs.  


“Same as ever. We’re going on a hunting trip this weekend,” she offers. “I’ll be glad to get away from here for a while, honestly.”  


“Because of that killer? What are they calling him- the Mimic?”  


Abigail nods. “It’s so creepy- someone copying Lecter’s murders,” she glances over at him cautiously when she says the name, but he’s preoccupied with the dog. “It’s like- he still has an effect, even from prison.”  


Will shakes his head. “No, that’s not it. Lecter’s not involved with this.”  


“How do you know? The details were supposedly perfect- down to things not released to the public,” she argues.  


“It’s just- obvious, isn’t it?” Will asks. “Lecter wouldn’t do something like this- he might have some insight into who it could be, but he wouldn’t help them. They’re just copying- mimicking. It’s low effort, like plagiarism.”  


“You got all that just from what you’ve seen on the news?” Abigail asks, impressed. Will ducks his head, blushing.  


“I’ve been following the story,” he confesses. “If I want to be a good profiler someday, I need to practice.”  


“You should tell someone- if you’re right- and I’d bet you are- you could help them.”  


Will shakes his head. “They wouldn’t listen to me.”  


“Well, you never know until you-”  


“Will!” Dr. Bloom’s voice calls out as the pair emerges from the trees near Will’s own house, interrupting Abigail as she rushes toward them. Will picks up on her distress instantly- it’s palpable in the air.  
“Dr. Bloom?” He blinks up at her.  


She looks at the puppy in his arms. “Where have you been?”  


“I- I was out in the woods with Abigail… we found this dog…” her distress, in turn, causes him to feel anxious. “I think it needs a vet, it’s hurt.”  


Dr. Bloom is silent for a long moment.  


“Dr. Bloom?” He asks. She glances at him as though startled.  


“Abigail, sweetie, can you run home? I have to talk to Will,” she requests in a voice like a command.  


Abigail glances at Will. “Do you want me to stay?” She asks, glancing at Dr. Bloom defiantly.  


Will shakes his head. “It’s… fine. I’ll be fine.”  


Abigail looks concerned, but nods. “Alright, I’ll see you around Will. Take care of that dog!” She calls out over her shoulder as she runs off.  


Will looks back at Dr. Bloom. “Is something wrong?” he asks. The dog squirms a bit in his arms, licking him. He hardly notices.  


She shakes her head. “Come with me, Will, okay?”  


She takes his free hand, and walks with him into the house. She tells him that his father died- no, not just died. His father was murdered. She won’t tell him the details, even as he demands them. He cries, and she tries to console him, but the next thing he knows he’s running, running away, away from the house, away from her, back into the woods as she calls his name from behind.  


He doesn’t look back.  


*****  


He moves in with Dr. Bloom- she agreed to take him in. They couldn’t track down his mother. He mourns. And mourns. They still won’t tell him the details, but he gets them nonetheless.  


It was the Mimic. He knew it had been. And by extension, he knew who had done it. After all, it could only be someone who both knew his relation to Doctor Lecter and knew the specifics of Lecter’s own crimes.  


He implicates him- Jason Bates, a colleague of Jack Crawford. He stuns everyone when he does it- accidentally reveals his hidden talent of empathy. But he doesn’t care. Even the ‘justice’ feels empty.  


His father is dead. His father died in the most horrible way- impaled by so many tools like Jeremy Olmstead. His father, who never did anything wrong. Who raised him like his own, despite knowing the truth.  


He doesn’t get many visitors. Crawford comes by a few times to offer his condolences and check on him, try to coax him back out, but he refuses. He hardly speaks. Abigail visits when she can, but she doesn’t know what to say, or do- neither does he, for that matter.  


He’s on TattleCrime when he sees it- a site he loathes but has taken to using grudgingly due to its uncanny (and likely illegal) talent to get the newest exclusive information on crimes and criminals.  


It’s a picture of him. Grainy, and poor quality, but him.  


He clicks on it- and is taken to an article entirely about him, written by one Freddie Lounds and entitled “The Lecter Legacy?”  


Citing an unnamed source, the secret Will and his father tried to keep for his entire life is laid bare for everyone to see- an article linking Will as Lecter’s son.  


He closes the window, feeling suddenly nauseous.  


He prays it will go away.  


But of course it doesn’t.  


No, that would be too easy.  


*****  


“Dr. Bloom,” Crawford inclines his head as he walks into the office where both she and Will sit, carrying a bag. “Will,” he adds, just catching sight of him.  


“What are you doing here, Jack?” Will’s guardian asks defensively. Crawford raises his hands.  


“I just thought,” he says, pulling a newspaper out of his bag and laying it on the desk. “That you should be notified of this as soon as possible.”  


Will sees Dr. Bloom pale as she looks at the paper. “What the hell is this?” she demands.  


Will cranes his head to see- Dr. Bloom moves to cover it, but not before he sees the picture of himself.  


The same picture he saw on TattleCrime less than a week ago.  


“They know, don’t they?” He asks. Alana glances at him sharply.  


“Will…”  


Jack bows his head. “I’m sorry, Will. We did everything we could to keep it secret.”  


Dr. Bloom rounds on him. “And it wasn’t enough! I told you, all those years ago, to leave Will alone, but you didn’t!” She jabs an accusing finger at him. “You should have known this would happen!”  


It’s the first time, Will thinks, that he’s ever seen Crawford look abashed. He clears his throat. “There’s more,” he prompts, looking at Crawford.  


“Yes, there is,” the man takes a deep breath. “Lecter knows.”  


Will thinks, in that moment, that he feels the ground fall out from under him. Crawford looks over at him.  


“He wants to meet you,” he adds, looking apologetic.  


“Fuck no!” Will hisses. Dr. Bloom, who would normally scold him for his language, looks like she much agrees with the sentiment.  


“What are you thinking, Jack? You didn’t come here just to tell us this. You could have called,” she accuses. “What’s your game?”  


Crawford glares at her stubbornly, but she doesn’t flinch. Will just watches the interaction, curious.  


“Lecter has information,” he finally supplies.  


“And?” Alana asks.  


Crawford sighs. “He has implied that he has information on a recent string of murders. Very convincingly implied such,” he remarks. “He supplied information we didn’t know we had until we checked the crime scene again. We think he can help us catch our killer.”  


Crawford pauses, glancing at Will. “But he’ll only agree to help us if… if we let him meet Will.”  


“No,” Alana says instantly, remaining steadfast even as Crawford glares.  


“He could save lives. All he has to do is show up. Even just for a second!”  


“You’re putting too much on the boy, Jack! You should be ashamed,” she declares, scowling right back.  


“I don’t think it’s your decision to make,” Crawford says stubbornly, turning to Will. “Will. I’m not forcing you to do anything, but keep in mind, if you can get Lecter to help us you could save lives.”  


Will feels his resolve weakening- save lives. He could stop another child from losing a father- a parent from losing a child- a brother from losing their sister.  


And if he’s honest- there’s a part of him, no matter how small, that wants to meet the man that sired him, to know where he came from.  


“All I have to do is agree to meet him?” He asks in a small voice. Crawford nods.  


“Will…” Alana protests.  


He holds Crawford’s gaze. Despite everything, he does trust the man to an extent, he realizes.  


“I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another really quick update- I wanted to get another chapter out just in case I get too busy during Christmas. Thanks to everyone who's left kudos or comments- they mean a lot! As usual I welcome any constructive criticism.  
> But yeah, Crawford. I have opinions on him. I think he's trying to do his best, but what's best for catching killers is far from what's best for Will, in canon and in this fic. I mean, even in the show Will was clearly unstable from the beginning (as much as I love him, it's true). Having him in the field was a really, really bad idea.  
> Also, I just really liked the idea of Will and Abigail being childhood friends in this AU. It'll be great, they can start a 'my dad is a cannibalistic serial killer' support group.  
> Anyway, I now have a definitive idea of where this fic is going. It's definitely going to be part 1 of a series- it's probably going to be decently long, too. I hope everyone's enjoying this!


	4. Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will meets a new member of the family.

An appointment is set up for precisely one week following Crawford’s initial request.

One week- Will wishes it had been a more immediate thing. A week gives him too long to think about it, about what he’s actually agreed to do- he would have much preferred to get it over with, like ripping off a band-aid. Instead, he’s left with the waiting, and the thinking.

Part of him feels scared, he supposes. He knows his empathy is a weakness as well as a strength- he can get otherwise unseen insights from the people around him, but he can also get sucked in too deeply- understand them too well. And some of the things he sees haunt him. With his own father- no, not his father, his sperm donor more like- he fears it might be all too easy to slip into his skin, to understand why he did what he did.

To slip into being like him.

Dr. Bloom- or Alana, as she’s begun to insist he call her- obviously has doubts. Over the entire week beforehand she must remind him fifty times that he can back out, he doesn’t have to talk to Dr. Lecter, no one would blame him for not wanting to.

He decides to go see Abigail the day beforehand- the only one he really feels like he can talk to about the situation. Alana, for all she’s done for him, is still not a peer- Abigail easier for him to communicate with, to confide in.

He decides to walk to her house.

He only makes it halfway there.

*****

“Mr. Graham?” The voice calls out from just a few feet behind him. It’s high-pitched, and sickly sweet.

Something urges him to keep walking- but he turns regardless, not wanting to be rude.

He’s met with the sight of a tall (to him), red-haired woman, adorned with an overly-friendly smile that rings false on multiple levels.

Unconsciously, he takes a step back. “Hello.”

Her smile widens. “I’m so glad I caught up with you- my name is Freddie Lounds. I’m a reporter.”

“A reporter,” he repeats, looking her up and down suspiciously. The name sounds familiar- but it takes him a while to realize from where. “Aren’t you the one that wrote that story about me?”

There’s a brief flash of something on her face- quickly replaced by that fake smile he’s already learning to hate. “So you read my piece on you? I can’t say I would have pegged you as one of my readers.”

He shrugs, licking his lips nervously. “If I recall correctly, you called me a ‘potential serial killer in the making.’”

Her smile never falters- she really is shameless, Will thinks. “I did, I admit- I’m sure you understand, people are very uncertain about you, Will.”

“Is that so?” Will asks, suddenly feeling indignant. “I had no idea I was such a topic of conversation.”

“The curse of being related to fame,” she says airily. “But you have the chance to take control of their perceptions of you, Will. I can help you.”

“I don’t need help,” he responds. “But thank you,” he adds as an afterthought. She just keeps smiling.

“Oh, William,” she simpers. “I know you’re having a difficult time right now, but really, if you don’t try to reign in people’s perceptions you’ll suffer for it. Just do an interview with me,” she offers in a tone that suggests she believes herself to be generous. “Give me your side of the story.”

Will fiddles with the glasses on his face- still unfamiliar and foreign to him. He’d needed them for years, but his father had never been able to scrape together the money to get them. They’d already become something of a grounding feeling for him, a familiar pressure- something to touch when he got nervous.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he says. “I don’t have a story anyway. Not an interesting one. And I-” he interrupts as she opens her mouth to speak again. “-I have to go- my friend is expecting me.”

She nods, feigning understanding, and he pretends not to see the flash of annoyance in her eyes. “Of course. But here-” she fishes something out of her purse and hands it to him, practically stuffing it in his hands- a cream-colored business card. “-take my card. If you’re ever ready to talk to someone, give me a call.”

And with a nod to him, she walks off in the opposite direction.

He presses the card into his pocket- just in case.

*****

“I think Doctor Bloom is right, you know,” Abigail’s feet swing through the air as they sit side by side on the park’s swingset. It’s the perfect day for them- cloudy and wet, driving everyone else inside. The park itself is draped in a thin layer of fog. “You shouldn’t talk to him.”

Will twists around on the swing, curling the chain around itself tightly. “I don’t think Mr. Crawford would have taken no for an answer, honestly. Besides-”

Abigail picks up on his hesitation. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I don’t want to, but- I do, you know? I mean… you and Alana are probably right. But I just want to- to know, I guess.”

“Know what?” She asks pointedly. “Everything there is to know about the man has been published on some website or newspaper by now.”

Will shrugs. “It’s different, though- knowing facts about someone and knowing the person. I want to know where I came from.”

Abigail stays silent for a moment. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Will laughs. “I’m touched that you care.”

“I didn’t say that,” Abigail smiles. “You just haven’t paid me back that money I loaned you for lunch the other day. I can’t have you getting hurt.”

Will huffs in mock indignation, taking his feet off the ground only slightly and letting the swing spin slowly round and round as the chain unwinds itself.

“A reporter stopped me on the way to your house,” he speaks up suddenly.

“What? Like… a real reporter?”

He shrugs. “Kind of. She writes for that one crime gossip magazine.” He kicks at the ground in front of him. “She wanted an interview with me. Kept talking about how I need to ‘control people’s perceptions of me,’” he repeats her phrasing derisively.

“That’s ridiculous,” Abigail scowls. “What’s there to control? It’s not like you’ve done anything.”

“Well, in her last article she did call me ‘a potential serial killer in the making,’” he informs her, trying and failing to keep his voice light. Abigail looks at him sympathetically.

“What a bitch,” she says, startling a laugh out of him. “You’re just a kid. And that one time we went hunting with your dad you cried at the thought of killing a rabbit.”

Will grimaces at the memory. “I was five,” he justifies weakly.

“Still,” she shakes her head. “What a vulture.”

“She gave me a business card and everything,” Will confides. “Seemed really eager to talk to me.”

“Don’t do it,” Abigail commands. “She’ll just twist your words around even if you do. She’s already determined to see you as guilty, just ‘cause of your father.”

“Lecter’s not my father,” he responds reflexively.

She looks apologetic. “You know what I mean.”

Will sighs. “I know.”

More silence. The fog seems to lay heavy around them.

“What are you going to say to him?” She asks, not having to specify who the ‘him’ she refers to is.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I guess… I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Are you gonna ask him why he did it?” She prompts, and he just shakes his head.

“I’m not entirely sure I want to know.”

*****

He walks home alone- Abigail had left an hour before him. He wanted some time to himself, anyway.

But he doesn’t want to go home, he realizes. Once he gets home, he’ll have to go to bed, and he knows he’s not going to sleep- not tonight. He runs through his head thinking of other places to go- the library is closed, and staying outside this late doesn’t seem like a good idea. He can hardly see anything, anyway.

He only thinks of where he wants to go as he’s passing it.

The local dog shelter- it’s hardly a shelter at all, really, functioning out of an old house repurposed for the shelter. The lights are still on- they don’t close for another hour.

He steps inside and is immediately hit with a wall of humid air, and the unmistakable scent of wet dog. The house has a cozy feel, almost cramped. A woman comes bustling out from behind a door.

She smiles at him cheerfully, wiping her wet hands off on her jeans. “Well, hello there, Will! What brings you here? Haven’t seen you in some time.”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the manager of the shelter. Or Joan, as she demands he call her. She knows him by name, of course- when he’s not at home, or the library, he visits the shelter. She’s always been kind to him, letting him play with the animals.

She’s lonely, he knows. Her husband passed away before Will was even born, and she never remarried. Suddenly he feels somewhat guilty for not stopping by more.

“Hi Joan,” he says, trying to peek behind her to get a glimpse of the dogs. “Actually, I was wondering if Doctor Bloom brought a dog by here a while ago.”

Joan nods, her smile fading just a little bit. “Oh, yes, she told me you were the one that found him.Would you like to see him?”

Will nods eagerly- he’d wondered what had happened to the little dog- and she leads him back into a room full of dog beds. They’re all empty, save for one in the back corner.

He recognizes the dog that lays in it as the one he found- the wound on its leg now healed over, having left a small, almost invisible scar. It seems almost huddled in the corner, lifting its head warily as they enter.

The dog visibly perks up upon seeing Will, trotting over to him with its tongue lolling out of its mouth and jumping on him eagerly. Will laughs- already the dog is bigger than when he rescued him from the woods, but it’s still just a puppy.

Joan watches the scene with almost a surprised look on her face. “Well, that’s new- I haven’t been able to get the little guy near me since he was brought in. I guess he recognizes you, Will!” She beams as Will gets down on his knees to pet the dog.

He licks Will’s face eagerly, eliciting another giggle from the boy. “What have you named him?”

“Barry,” she responds. “He looks like a Barry, don’t you think?”

Will doesn’t think the dog looks like it should have any name in particular, but he nods nonetheless.

“Can I…” he trails off, looking up at her with wide, pleading eyes. “Can I take him home?”

Joan hesitates. “I would love to let you take the little guy home, Will, but would Doctor Bloom be okay with that?”

“We were talking about adopting a dog soon,” Will lies effortlessly. “This weekend, actually.”

She smiles at him trustingly. “Well, in that case, I don’t see why not! I’m certain he’d be happier with you than here anyway. But you know,” she adds as though just realizing it. “He’s a golden retriever puppy- he’s small now, but he’s going to be a pretty big dog.”

Will just nods. “I know.”

*****

Joan gives him everything he’ll need for Barry- a leash, dog food, a dog bed, even a few toys. She even gives the two of them a ride home in her car.

“You take care of that dog now,” she says as he gets out of the car once they’re back at his house.

“I will!” He says happily. “Thank you Joan!”

She smiles to herself as she drives off, thinking how nice it is that Doctor Bloom was willing to let Will take in a dog so soon after the boy moved in with her.

“Will?” Alana calls as he steps into the house. “I thought you said you’d be home by…”

Her voice trails off as she walks into the room, eyes drifting from the dog on the floor to the boy with his arms full of supplies. She’s quiet for a moment, covering her face with her hands. Her shoulders start to shake, and for a moment Will thinks she’s crying.

“I’m sorry?” He says innocently.

She looks up at him, and he sees with some relief that she’s smiling, struggling to hold back laughter. “You know, I half expected this would happen eventually, but I have to say you worked quicker than I thought, Will.”

“So… we can keep him?” He asks, and practically beams when she nods, dropping the supplies and running forward to wrap her in one of his rare hugs.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Alana just shakes her head, returning the embrace.

*****

He doesn’t sleep the night before- which, perhaps, is a blessing. Ever since the death of his dad, his nightmares have only become more and more frequent, more and more intense. On this night in particular, he can’t imagine he would have found rest in his sleep.

The dog bed that’s been set up in the corner of the room goes unused, Barry insistent on sleeping on his bed. Will’s too weak to say no, even after promising Alana he wouldn’t let him on the furniture.

The feeling of dread in his stomach only builds as he watches the sunrise outside his bedroom window, rising to a climax when he hears Alana moving around the house.

No point in pretending to be asleep.

He climbs out of bed, dressing himself and getting ready slowly, as though hoping that by moving as slowly as possible he might persuade time itself to slow and delay what he’s come to regard as the inevitable.

Alana pokes her head into his bedroom right as he’s getting finished. She’s smiling, but it seems tight, forced.

“Hey, kiddo,” she says in a forced cheerful voice. “You wanna eat something before we go?”

He shakes his head mutely, shrinking away from her disapproving gaze.

“You really should. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”

He shakes his head again. “I… don’t have an appetite.”

She hesitates a moment, before nodding. “Alright, I get it. I’ll be in the car, alright? We should get going. Early appointment.”

And with that, she leaves, closing the door behind her. He sits on the bed, listening as she exits the house and starts the car.

He doesn’t want to go.

Almost unwillingly his thoughts are drawn back to the pictures of Lecter’s murders- the one’s he’d been able to see, at least.

He shakes it off, and follows after Alana.

*****

“It’s not too late, you know,” Alana frets as they sit in a sort of waiting room. “You can still back out. You don’t have to do this.”

Will doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even give any indication that he’s heard. He just keeps his gaze fixed on his shoes, trying to ground himself in the moment.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Alana lays a gentle hand on his arm a few moments later.

“They’re here, Will.”

He looks up- standing near the door that leads deeper into the BSHCI are two people he recognizes on sight- Crawford, and Chilton.

He tries to keep the dislike off his face when he sees Chilton- looking every bit as smug as the last time he’d seen him.

“Ah, Mr. Graham,” Chilton greets as he approaches the pair. “Good to see you again. I was quite concerned when you last left my office- how have you been?”

Last left your office, Will thinks, after you accused me of being a psychopath. Among other things. He smiles anyway, giving the man a nod. “Good, thank you.”

Crawford chooses that moment to interrupt. “Are you ready for this, Will?”

Will fidgets slightly as he stands. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Crawford rubs his eyes- he looks tired, Will suddenly realizes- it must be the case he mentioned. “That will have to do.”

Alana suddenly stands next to him, hand on his shoulder. “You’re sure this is necessary, Jack?”

He nods. “Lecter has information on our prime suspect- Randall Tier. He treated the kid back when he was a psychiatrist. And-” he looks away as though ashamed. “-we haven’t been able to find him.”

Will nods, looking up at Alana. “It’s okay,” he tries to reassure her. “I don’t mind.”

She looks unconvinced. Chilton, on the other hand, looks bored.

“Well, shall we get going, then?” He asks, not waiting for a reply as he turns on his heel and heads back through the door he and Crawford entered through. Will hurries after him.

The group comes to a stop in front of a heavy looking, metal door which requires a keycard to open. It makes Will feel nervous just looking at it.

“Your father-” Will flinches. “-is in the cell at the end of this hallway. Don’t touch the glass,” Chilton recites as if bored. “Don’t provoke the inmates, and don’t give any more personal information than you have to.”

Will nods in understanding, and Chilton gives him a searching look before finally unlocking the door.

“You have an hour,” he says. “But if you need to leave before then, just come back out this door. I’m sure Miss Bloom will be waiting for you.”

“I’ll be going in with him, Mr. Chilton,” she protests. It’s Crawford that shakes his head.

“No, one of Lecter’s conditions was that he gets to meet Will alone.”

Alana glares at him. “And you actually agreed to this?”

Crawford stands firm. “We didn’t exactly have a lot of room to negotiate.”

“Will is a person, not a bargaining chip.”

“And if you’re both quite finished,” Chilton interrupts. “I’m sure this person is just as eager to get this whole thing over with as we are. Will?”

For once, he finds himself agreeing with Chilton, which feels weird. He nods, and Alana squeezes his shoulder.

“Leave immediately if you feel unsafe, alright?” He nods again.

And then he steps through the door, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm going to be honest, I fully intended to have the meeting between Hannibal and Will happen in this chapter, but it kept dragging on and on so I decided it would probably be better to split it in half. Next chapter for sure, I promise!  
> But at least Will's finally got a dog. It feels nice to give him happiness- for now.   
> Thanks to everyone who's left comments so far, your feedback really means a lot to me! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter.  
> And Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus, Happy Holidays!


	5. A Belated Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting between father and son

He finds himself in a long hallway, concrete and fluorescent lights and sterility lined on one side by glass cells. The glass, he’s been assured, despite being transparent, is thick enough that there’s no danger- bullet proof glass, he surmised.

The door slides shut behind him with a click.

He takes a deep breath, and starts walking.

He passes several other cells on the way- something he hadn’t quite prepared for. Fortunately for him, most of them seem to be asleep, or at the very least, entirely uninterested in him.

A chair is set up at the end of the hallway- in front of what he presumes is Lecter’s cell.

He fiddles with his glasses as he approaches.

He recognizes him on sight- how could he not? He’s seen his picture so many times, on the news, in the articles he read- for a period of time, it was everywhere. The man- his father- Hannibal Lecter- sits at a desk in his cell, legs crossed, in the posture of a man patiently awaiting an appointment.

Unconsciously, his breath catches in his throat, and he feels his back straighten.

In a strange way, he’d always wanted this to happen- well, sort of. He wanted to meet his father, but until Crawford had shown up in Alana’s office just a week ago, it had been the kind of comfortably far off thing he could afford to want. It was never going to happen, so imagining getting to meet him was harmless- now, it was all too real.

He wanted to go back- but something kept him from it. Maybe it was the feeling that he’d come too far, maybe it was the shame that leaving without even trying would bring- but he kept going.

“And who would you be?”

The one that speaks isn’t his father- the voice comes from directly to his left. There’s a man, leaning against the glass of his own cell.

He recognizes him- Doctor Abel Gideon. Convicted some years back of first degree murder for the killing of his wife and her family, rather than being taken to a prison he was instituted here, in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Will thinks he would prefer prison.

“Um…” he glances over at the end of the hallway, where his father’s cell is. “Will Graham.”

“Will Graham?” Gideon repeats. “Awfully young to be in a place like this. I knew Chilton had some less than ethical practices, but this is a stretch even for him.”

Will snorts, and Gideon’s mouth twitches up in response. “Chilton didn’t send me.”

“Oh?” The man in the cell next to his father’s raises a brow. “And who did?”

“Crawford,” Will responds without thinking. He silently curses himself- both for offering this man information, and for getting drawn into a conversation with him in the first place.

“Jack Crawford?” Gideon asks, interest in his voice. “He spoke to me on more than one occasion when I was being accused of being the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“You?” Will asks in some surprise. He steps towards the glass, temporarily cutting off the view of his father.

“You seem surprised. I would’ve thought you could have seen it on the news- though,” he glances at him. “I guess it was before your time.”

Will flushes indignantly. “I’m not that young,” he protests. “And anyway, it doesn’t make sense- I mean, you don’t fit the profile at all. You’re both intelligent, sure, but Lecter- the Ripper- was more methodical with his killings. The crime you were arrested for was a crime of passion.”

“Oh, impressive assessment, Mr. Graham,” the man grins at him. “You certainly seem to know a lot about the subject.”

Will shrugs awkwardly, and the man waves him off.

“Well, don’t let me keep you, Mr. Graham. I’m sure Crawford’s eager to get whatever this is done- desperate as he must have been, to send in a child.”

Will bristles a bit at that, but takes the opportunity to walk away while he can.

He walks up to where they’ve set up the chair- for a moment, he thinks his father seems a bit annoyed (though he does a good job hiding it) and he gathers that he knows he’s been kept waiting.

He doesn’t sit down. He feels more safe on his feet, somehow, and the chair looks uncomfortable anyway- cold, hard metal.

Something indiscernible seems to flash in his father’s eyes, just for a moment, when he sees him.

“You must be William,” his father’s voice is thick with an accent that Will doesn’t recognize. He nods mutely, and the man in the cell smirks slightly. “If what the articles have been saying is true, you’re believed to be my son.”

“That’s… accurate,” Will forces out. It seems like all the things he’d rehearsed to say in his head just before coming here have suddenly flown away, out of his grasp.

“And who is your mother? The papers were quite silent on that.”

“Sarah Graham was my mother,” he answers easily enough. It doesn’t feel like giving up personal information- he hardly knows her, really.

“Sarah?” Lecter repeats, ponderously. “Yes, I think I remember her- you do resemble her quite well,” and the man’s eyes are suddenly focused on him- Will tries not to meet them. “Though,” the man leans back in his chair, seemingly satisfied. “You have my eyes.”

Will struggles to suppress a shudder at that.

“Why did you ask to see me?” He turns to face Lecter abruptly.

“It’s not unusual to desire to meet one’s child,” Lecter answers amicably. “If, in fact, you are mine. Who raised you, William?”

“My dad. My real dad, I mean,” he corrects defiantly. Lecter doesn’t comment, but he thinks that he sees the man’s eye twitch.

“Not Sarah?” Lecter asks, and Will shakes his head.

“She left when I was young.”

“You’re still young,” he responds. “Only twelve, aren’t you, Will? Such a shame, to lose both parents at such a young age. I heard about your father’s passing,” Lecter’s lips curl up cruelly, and Will clenches his fist.

Breathe, he reminds himself. A reaction is what he wants.

“And if Freddie Lounds is to be believed,” Will’s mind snaps back into the moment at the sound of the familiar name. “You’re the one who pointed them in the killer’s direction.”

“I didn’t imagine you one to read gossip rags,” he answers, avoiding the subject.

“Well, it was a gossip rag about my son, after all,” and Will grits his teeth.

“I’m not your son.”

“No? Jack Crawford certainly seems to think so- or at the very least, he wants me to believe that you are.” Lecter leans forward, steepling his hands. “If you would, inform him that I want a paternity test done.”

“What, worried you’ll be on the hook for child support?” Will asks sarcastically.

“Worried that Crawford has gone so far as to enlist an innocent child in his schemes.”

Will shakes his head. “Hardly. Believe me,” he meets Lecter’s eyes for the first time since arriving- deep, stormy eyes. “I’m not happy with the situation either. A paternity test has already been done, but if you want another one, I won’t object- proving that the first one was somehow wrong would be a dream come true.”

Lecter raises a brow. “I would have hoped your adoptive father taught you manners. Regardless,” his eyes scan Will once again, and it takes a concentrated effort on Will’s part not to squirm. “I want to see the results of the test. Though I do believe you are my son,” he adds, as though Will was worried. “It pays to be thorough.”

“Right,” Will responds uncertainly. “Well, fantastic. Will you help Crawford now?”

“A deal is a deal,” Lecter answers simply. “I take it you’re leaving, then?” Will nods, and Lecter smiles. “Well, do come back soon, William. I look forward to getting to know my son.”

His anger finally bubbles to the surface, uncontainable. “I’m not your son,” he spits out, and Lecter’s eyes flash. “And I never will be. Edric Graham is my father. And frankly, Dr. Lecter,” he emphasizes the formality of the name. “I don’t find you interesting enough to want to return.”

Having said his piece, he turns on his heel, not giving the man a second glance as he walks out. He thinks he hears laughter from Gideon’s cell as he passes by, but he’s so focused on his destination he’s not entirely sure.

He thinks he could collapse with relief when Alana opens the door for him, and he steps back into the hallway and away from the oppressive atmosphere of those glass cages.

“Are you okay, Will?” She asks almost immediately, seeming wary.

Will fidgets, sighing. “I’m alright. Can… can we go home, now?”

She nods immediately, taking his hand. “Of course, kiddo.”

Just his luck, Crawford and Chilton choose that moment to appear. Crawford looks agitated, while Chilton just looks… slightly interested.

“Was trying to piss him off part of your plan, Will?” Crawford demands, and Will flinches. Alana steps between them.

“Jack, that’s not fair and you know it! You sent him in there to deal with Lecter- the man’s made grown psychiatrists cry during his trial. Of course he’s capable of riling up a twelve year old kid, you can’t blame Will for that.”

Crawford looks away. “Well, he claimed that he’d keep his end of the bargain. Just be more careful next time, alright Will? We don’t want you getting hurt.”

Will starts to nod, but stops halfway through. “Wait, next time? I-”

“If there is a next time,” Crawford interrupts. “There might not be, you’re right.”

“More importantly,” Chilton starts. “That was some impressive profiling you did in there with Gideon, Will. And Lecter mentioned something I meant to bring up- they say you found your father’s killer based on profile alone.”

“And?” Will asks cautiously.

Chilton smiles at him in a way he’s sure is meant to be friendly, but somehow manages to still be just as smarmy as the rest of him. “I was simply going to suggest that you return to my office for further psychological testing- you have a gift, Will, one that deserves further understanding.”

Will shakes his head instantly, taking a step back. “No more testing. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

Chilton looks at Crawford as though for help, and Crawford nods slowly. “It may do us good to gain understanding, Will.”

Will just shakes his head again, stubbornly. “No. What you said earlier- you seemed to think you would need my help again,” he glances at Alana uncertainly, but continues on anyway. “I’ll help- but only on the condition that I’m not forced into anymore tests.”

Both Crawford and Chilton protest a while longer, but ultimately it’s agreed- no more tests.

And even after he leaves with Alana, he has a terrible feeling he'll be back soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! May this year be better than the last.  
> Anyway, this was an interesting chapter to write. I hope I got all the characterizations right- and as usual, I hope everyone's enjoying. I welcome feedback!  
> On a more personal note, I've finally finished my first independent novel- huge milestone! I'm looking to get it published now. If anyone has any advice on that front, I'd greatly appreciate it as well. Other than that, well... wish me luck!


	6. Inevitability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go to hell and I blame Freddie Lounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by my manic depression-fueled insomnia

He’s surrounded on all sides by blankets of snow, thick and deep. It’s so cold, it burns his bare feet. He’s walking along the snow crusted ground, trying to find something. He doesn’t know what, not yet. It’s something he put there, weeks ago, when the snows had just started. Still frozen beneath all those layers- it’s just starting to melt.

They’ll find it soon.

*****

He wakes up gasping, drenched in sweat. It’s the middle of the night- the pale moonlight shines through the window, casting a faint illumination over the bed. He throws the covers off, heart still pounding in his chest. Barry whined softly next to him, licking his hand. Will stroked his head absently.

Randall Tier had been caught the day following Will’s visit with Lecter- thanks, Crawford claimed, to the tips the man had given them. Will was a hero, or so said all the adults around him.

Funnily enough, though, TattleCrime was blocked at his home using Dr. Bloom’s parental controls the same day. He never let her know that he could get around them easily- she might alter them if she knew, and he didn’t want to waste time finding another way through.

He clambered out of bed, taking a seat at his computer desk- his room had nearly doubled in size when he moved in with Doctor Bloom. The article was already up on the screen- he’d looked at it time and time again since its release. A near minute-by-minute detailing of the meeting with his father- he’d almost laughed when he’d seen it. So much for Chilton’s impeccable security.

Was this the way his life would be from now on? Always being watched, his every move analyzed.

Lounds had seemed particularly intrigued by his conversation with Gideon, however. She apparently found it indicative of a ‘fascination with psychopaths’, and went on to imply that he was also a psychopath.

He changes into real clothes quickly.

He needs some air.

*****

It’s cold outside. The only light comes from the few street lamps scattered throughout the neighborhood. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this- if Alana ever found out, she’d be furious. But he can’t help himself- the indoors are suffocating him. He left Barry inside.

He’s alone.

Until he’s not.

He hears the man before he sees him- footsteps heavier than his own, a ways back. He keeps walking. He doesn’t look back.

And he prays it’s nothing.

The footsteps behind him pick up pace, and in response, so does he.

And in a matter of moments, he’s running.

So is the man behind him.

His eyes scan the area around him hurriedly- looking for something, anything to help him. He screams, but no one comes- he’s on his own.

His eyes catch on something protruding from the ground- a rock. It’s not an ideal weapon, but it’s something. He bends down hurriedly, scooping the rock up in his hands.

And then the man is on him.

He’s grabbed from behind, and he’s kicking and struggling and screaming. He hears faint curses from the man, and a hand clamps down over his mouth.

It frees up one of his arms to do what he needs.

He strikes behind him aiming for the man’s eye and digging his thumb in. The man curses and staggers back, and before he loses his momentum he spins on his heel and strikes the man across the temple with the stone still clutched in his hand.

The impact jolts against his arm, but still he hits him again.

And again.

The man’s on the ground before Will stops, gasping and panting for air. Blood pools on the ground from his head, black in the moonlight. He does a quick check of himself- no serious wounds, but he’ll be surprised if he doesn’t end up with some serious bruises where he was grabbed.

In the distance he hears the shrieking of police sirens.

*****

A half hour later and he’s sitting on the same curb, a blanket draped over his shoulders and Alana seated next to him. Someone had heard his screams, apparently, and phoned the police.

He’s already been examined and declared perfectly fine, but the man who attacked him, still yet to be ID’ed, was taken away in an ambulance. He shivers, and draws the blanket tighter around him.

“What were you thinking, Will?” Alana asks him, sounding more worried than angry. “Christ, you could have been killed, did you even think of that?”

It takes him a moment to respond. “Well, if I’d known I was going to be attacked, I probably wouldn’t have left the house,” he snaps, perhaps harsher than he’d meant to.

Alana shakes her head. “You’re not supposed to be going out this late in the first place, Will, you know that! It’s three in the morning.”

He looks away. “I just had a nightmare. I wanted to go for a walk.”

She looks like she wants to says something more, but instead just shakes her head again. “Do you have any idea who that man was, Will?” She takes his hand, voice more gentle now, coaxing.

“I have no idea.”

If Alana’s disappointed by this, she does a good job of hiding it. “That’s fine, I’m sure we’ll know soon enough.”

She looks away from him, over at where a few cops stand around one of their cars, talking. “Stay right here, alright Will? I’m going to go talk to the officers.”

She stands up and walks away- and Will is left alone, sitting on the curb.

*****

To his surprise, he’s able to fall asleep again before morning, a deep, dreamless sleep. He’s only awoken, in fact, by a knock on the front door.

He rubs his eyes blearily, climbing out of bed and staggering out his door and down the stairs toward where Alana already has the door open, door held open by one hand while the other holds Barry back as he barks at whoever is outside.

He catches a glimpse of Jack Crawford outside the door and hopes that he does a decent job of hiding the dismay on his face.

“Morning, Alana,” he says as he comes to stand at the foot of the stairs, holding Barry to allow her to finish opening the door.

She nods at him gratefully. “Sorry, Will. I wanted to give you the chance to get some sleep this morning,” she turns her attention back to Crawford. “Come on in, then.”

He walks in, giving the dog a curious glance as he does.

“I didn’t know you had a dog,” he comments to Alana, who shrugs.

“Will picked him up some time ago, and I didn’t have the heart to say no,” she explains.

Crawford nods, finally looking at Will. “And how are you doing today, Will?” He asks cautiously.

“Well, I’d be better if I was still asleep,” he answers pointedly, and to his surprise Crawford smiles grimly.

“Sorry about that,” he says, sounding sincerely regretful. “But I needed to talk to you and Alana, and I figured it was best to get it done.” He nods to her. “Can we sit down?”

The trio ends up seated in the living room of the house, Will in a chair while Crawford and Alana take the couch.

There are several moments of awkward silence as they get settled, and Crawford clears his first. “Well, first things first, I’ve of course heard about the incident last night.” He gives Will a searching look. “They said you were unharmed?”

Will rubs his arm where the man grabbed him, swearing that he can still feel his strong grip. “Just some bruising.”

Crawford nods, seemingly satisfied. “We’ve identified the man who attacked you. Gregory Olmstead.”

Will catches on immediately. “Related to Jeremy Olmstead?”

Alana suddenly looks nervous. “Jeremy Olmstead… one of Lecter’s last victims, wasn’t he? Then, was it some kind of twisted attempt at revenge?”

Crawford nods once again. “That’s the working theory, though,” he glances back at Will again, somewhat uncertainly. “We have no way of confirming. The man’s in a coma.”

“A coma? I put him in a coma?” Will asks, dismayed.

Crawford shakes his head firmly. “No, you defended yourself, Will, it’s not your fault.”

“Do you think something like this could happen again? Is Will safe?” Alana frets, and Crawford shifts uncomfortably.

“We have no way of knowing, but we suspect Mr. Olmstead acted alone. We believe that he was lying in wait outside of the house until Will was alone, and when he went out for a night walk it was a perfect opportunity.” He fixes Will with a stern look. “You’re very lucky to be unharmed.”

Will chooses to ignore the last part of his assertions. “He did act alone. It was… too impulsive for it to have been part of a larger conspiracy. He’s been so angry, all these years, that Lecter has been allowed to live while his father died. He couldn’t hurt Lecter- because of how well guarded he is- so when he found out about me, he wanted to take the opportunity to strike out,” he feels as though he’s slipped out of his own skin and into Gregory Olmstead’s skin, taking on his perspective perfectly.

Crawford frowns. “How did you know he was Olmstead’s son? I don’t remember mentioning it.”

Will shakes his head, a little unnerved himself as he comes back. “I’m… I’m not entirely sure. Sometimes, when I’m trying to empathize with them, things just come like that. Maybe it was something I observed unconsciously.”

He doesn’t miss the way Crawford looks at him after that- like a specimen under a microscope. “But you didn’t come here just to tell us that?” He prompts.

“Right again,” Crawford answers, still scrutinizing him. He finally breaks his gaze, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “We gave Lecter the results of the paternity test as he requested. He’s requesting to see you again.”

“Jack, do you really think that’s a good idea after what just happened?” Alana asks incredulously.

Crawford shakes his head. “I don’t like it either, but- Alana, you were there when Lecter was working for us as a profiler.”

“I was,” she answers hesitantly.

“We’ve never gotten as good results as we did back then,” Crawford explains to Will. “Your father, despite everything else- well, he did help us catch criminals.”

“To stroke his own ego,” Alana interrupts.

“Be that as it may, it worked, and to be honest with you both, we need his help more than ever.”

“So find someone else,” Alana says. “There has to be someone else.”

“Not like him,” Crawford argues. “He understands the minds of these killers better than anyone we’ve ever seen.”

Alana shakes her head, and seems about to say something else when Will speaks up. “Let me do the profiling for you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Not a chance.”

The two adults speak practically simultaneously with their rejections, and Will directs his glares between the two of them. “Why not?”

“Will, you’re a child,” Alana reasons. “Neither of us can deny your… talents, but this isn’t a job for a child.”

“If the job gets done, what does it matter who does it?” He argues stubbornly, but Crawford still shakes his head.

“Like Doctor Bloom said, Will, you are skilled, but even if I was willing to put you out there there is about a snowball’s chance in hell my superiors would approve a child being put out in the field, regardless of who it is.”

Will scowls deeply, and Crawford changes tact. “If you really want to help- all you have to do is agree to Doctor Lecter’s terms.”

“Which are?” He asks.

“Once a week visitation, and that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Alana repeats incredulously. She looks at Will with resignation in her eyes, sighing. “It’s up to you, Will.”

Both adults look to him now.

And of course, the decision is obvious.

*****

“Is there something wrong, Abigail?” Will asks. His friend sits on his front porch, petting Barry but looking a thousand miles away from the moment. She almost visibly starts when he speaks.

She flashes him an unconvincing smile. “Nah, I’m fine. Just you know… school’s been stressful lately, that’s all.”

He wants to protest- there’s something profoundly off about his friend- but she speaks over him when he tries. “Anyway, I should be the one worried about you, right? God, your life’s gotten crazy recently.”

He can’t argue with that. “Tell me about it.”

“Any updates on the situation with that crazy guy?”

“My father, or Olmstead?” He asks, only half joking.

“Either, now that you mention it.”

He sighs. “Olmstead’s still in a coma. They, uh, don’t really know how he’s going to recover, or if he’ll wake up at all.” He fiddles with his glasses anxiously, purposefully looking away from Abigail. “I’m sure Lounds already has an article out about it,” he mutters bitterly.

“Her readers are all idiots anyway,” she responds, as has become her go to response whenever the name Freddie Lounds comes up. “And your father?”

“My first ‘visitation’ meeting is tomorrow,” Will answers, playing with one of the buttons on his jacket. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to it. I think I… might have pissed him off last time I was there.”

“Must not of been that bad, if he’s asking to see you again.”

“Unless he just wants to see me as part of some long game he’s playing,” Will rebuts. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Well, at least try to look on the bright side.”

“The bright side is I’ll be starting college course work soon,” Will smiles, still filled with a sense of pride at his accomplishment. Only online courses for now, of course, but it’s a start. And miles ahead of his peers- both a blessing and a curse. “That’ll at least give me something else to focus on. And if I can get a degree, well, maybe everyone will finally take me seriously.”

“Fat chance,” Abigail answers, a hint of edge to her voice almost unnoticeable. “No one takes people our age seriously.”

Will glances at his friend again- there really has been an underlying current of strain to her voice recently. “You sure you’re okay?”

Abigail meets his eyes, and the instant she does Will is shocked by the mixture of emotions he sees there- fear, worry, anxiety. He looks away immediately, and she stands abruptly.

“I’m sorry Will, I need to get home.”

And before he knows it, she’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, almost time for school to start again! Yay......  
> So as you might have guessed, I'm just- completely screwing the actual timeline with this fic. Abigail's situation, for example, is probably going to come to a head in the next three, four chapters, when both she and Will are still young.  
> Anyway, I really should be getting to sleep, because it's three in the morning, but as usual I hope everyone's still enjoying this! To everyone who has left kudos, and especially to those who have left comments, thank you so much! Your feedback means the world to me, honestly.


	7. Father and Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lovely conversation between a father and his son.

It’s cold, and dark.

He’s back outside, on the street where he fought Olmstead. He’s walking, but he doesn’t know where to.

This time he doesn’t notice the man as he approaches, until suddenly a hand is clamped over his mouth. He sees something glint in the dark of the moonlight, and-

It doesn’t hurt as the knife slips between his ribs and pierces a lung- shock, he labels it numbly. He arcs his back, fear and pain driving him to push away from the man that grips him and unwittingly pushing him further onto the blade. He whimpers as the blade is drawn slowly out, blood seeping from the wound and dripping from the knife.

He feels blood seeping into his lung, and, strangely, for a moment he remembers him of fishing with his father once when he was younger. He’d slipped under the water, having stubbornly removed his life jacket complaining of the heat but being too young to swim.

It had been peaceful under the water, until it had begun to fill his nose and mouth, drowning him. His father had saved him then, lifting him coughing and spluttering from the cool water.

He was alone now.

He wakes up just as the pain hits him.

*****

He breaks into consciousness with a scream that dies prematurely in his throat. Running on residual fear from his nightmare he pulls of his nightshirt in panic, a sickening sense of relief slipping over him when he sees his skin unbroken, only blemished by the bruises the attack left him.

He lets out a deep breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding, feeling that familiar sense of foolishness over getting worked up about a dream.

And anyway, he hadn’t been the one terribly injured in the attack. That honor belonged to Olmstead.

The events of that night keep running through his head, playing on loop. The feeling of burying his thumb in Olmstead’s eye, the impact shaking up his arm, the rush of adrenaline- but the worst part, what he can’t get rid of, is how he felt when Olmstead was on the ground. He’d felt calm, no, more than that, he’d felt… powerful. In control.

He cuts his own thoughts off with a shudder, standing from the bed with a sudden jolt and running to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to vomit.

He clutches the edge of the sink shakily, pulling himself up only when he’s certain he’s finished. Tears sting at his eyes, though rather they sprung up from the dream or the trauma of throwing up he doesn’t know.

The water from the sink is cool on his face. He rinses the sour taste from his mouth before flushing the toilet, praying that Alana won’t notice anything wrong. He knows she would stop him from helping Crawford if she knew how affected he was by what happened with Olmstead. She would think talking to Lecter would only make the situation worse.

She would probably be right, too, Will reflected, but he was unwilling to back out now.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, face pale and drawn tight.

His father’s eyes.

A knock on the bathroom door spares him from having to think of that.

“Will? You’re up early. Is everything alright?” Alana’s voice is muffled through the door, but unmistakably concerned.

“Just woke up early,” he answers in a voice he hopes isn’t too shaky. He can practically hear her hesitation.

“Alright. I’m going to be working today, so Crawford’s going to come around at around two to pick you up. Is that okay?”

Of course- he’d been so distracted he had nearly forgotten. Today was his second visit with Lecter.

“You’re not coming with me?” He hopes he doesn’t sound as afraid as he feels.

There’s a brief pause before she answers. “I can’t cancel my appointments for today, Will. I’m sorry,” she does sound genuinely regretful. “Just remember, it’s never too late to decide against this.”

He hears shuffling from behind the door. “I have to get going now, okay? Call me if you need anything.”

He doesn’t answer- can’t think of anything to say- and in just a moment he hears footsteps leading away from the door, fading.

And then he’s alone in the house, waiting.

*****

Crawford arrives promptly at two, and the pair set off back to the BSHCI in his car. The ride is mostly silent, but it’s not entirely awkward- Will just watches the landscape pass by out the window as Crawford drives.

Will feels a now familiar ball of dread coiling in his stomach as they pull into the visitors’ parking lot.

“I hate places like these,” the confession slips from his mouth before he can stop himself, as he steps out of the car.

“Why’s that?” Crawford questions, and Will fidgets, not having intended to invite scrutiny on himself.

“I’m always afraid they won’t let me leave,” he answers solemnly- and truthfully. Unbidden memories of that night that put a man in the hospital rise to the surface, and he does his best to shake them off. Crawford places what he thinks is a comforting hand on Will’s shoulder as they walk in together.

“I won’t let them keep you here, Will,” he tells the boy sincerely.

Will prays that he’ll never give them reason to.

*****

As Will walks down the hallway leading to Lecter’s cell for the second time, he has a moment to reflect on how surreal the entire situation is. A series of weird circumstance upon weird circumstance- that he’s only met his father once in his life, that his father is an infamous serial killer, that said serial killer actually has demanded visitation rights with him- it’s absurd.

He still feels nervous, but somehow less so than last time- legends can never measure up in reality, after all. The fear and dread that had been built up by the media’s depiction of The Ripper, turning him into almost a mythical thing, dissipated somewhat when he was faced with the actual man himself. And yet, even without all that, the man is terrifying- it’s difficult for him to imagine people ever believing that paper-thin person suit Lecter seems to wear.

Doctor Gideon isn’t in his cell when Will passes, which almost disappoints him. Getting sucked into another conversation with him would at least keep Will away from Lecter.

No such luck.

This time, Will does take a seat in the chair set out for him- if this is going to become a thing, he might as well try to make himself comfortable.

Lecter nods at him in acknowledgement as he sits down, somehow making even the simple gesture of greeting feel condescending. His father stands in the center of his cell, sweeping a scrutinizing gaze over the boy on the other side of the glass.

Will clears his throat uncertainly. “I take it you were satisfied with the paternity test results Crawford provided you with, then?”

Lecter tactfully chooses to ignore the jab, his gaze coming to rest on the bruises currently littering Will’s right arm where he was grabbed. Will fidgets nervously as some odd look flits in Lecter’s eyes.

“How were you injured, Will?” His father asks.

“Would you believe me if I said I fell down the stairs?”

His father just raises an eyebrow and stares, as Will tries to think of some plausible way to avoid the question.

“I’m surprised you haven’t already read about it,” he grumbles.

“Interestingly, I noticed that the papers I received since shortly after your last visit have been missing pages. Perhaps there’s a correlation.”

Will pauses for a second, considering whether or not it’s wise to give his father information that the hospital staff thought it prudent to withhold from the man.

Ultimately, he decides to. In situations like these- or at least, in most situations where criminals are interviewed- it’s common advice to try to build a rapport and establish trust. Telling the truth would probably  
be a step.

“I was attacked,” he says simply, hoping to keep his voice light.

Lecter’s eyes flash with something that, if Will didn’t know any better, he’d label as- well, rage. “By whom?” His father’s voice is tight.

Will shifts in his chair. “A man named Gregory Olmstead.”

Recognition registers on Lecter’s face. “Son of Jeremy Olmstead,” he says thoughtfully, mask having come back as quickly as it slipped off. “Then the motive was revenge?”

“That’s the theory.”

“I should think it would be obvious. Unless- have they not apprehended him?”

Will shakes his head hesitantly. “He’s in a coma at the moment.”

“A coma,” Lecter seems disproportionately pleased with this information. “And how did that happen?”

He glares at his father defiantly, not wanting to share how it happened but feeling as though he has no choice. “I fought back. I went too far.”

He’s sure that’s what the papers are saying about him, Lounds in particular- though he admits that Alana has been much more diligent in shielding him from finding those articles since the attack.

In the cell, his father shakes his head. “On the contrary, William, you didn’t go far enough.” Once again that flicker of rage is visible on his father’s face before the mask slips over him once again. “A man that would harm a child has no right to live.”

“Please,” Will answers. “You think people deserve to die for being a bit rude- I’m going to go ahead and take your judgements with a grain of salt.”

Lecter simply smiles. “All sins are equal in the eyes of God- isn’t that what the church teaches, William?”

Will has no clue- he’s never set foot in a church. “And are you God, Doctor Lecter?”

“Not at all- but humans punish other humans for their sins all the time, William.” The man gestures around him. “Hence my presence here.”

Will shakes his head. “If that helps you sleep at night.”

“I’ve found my sleep remarkably untroubled,” Lecter responds. “But if the bags under your eyes are any indication, you are unable to say the same. Tell me, William, are you suffering from nightmares following your experience with Olmstead?”

Will wishes Lecter would stop using his name. Even more, he wishes he could deny the genuine sounding concern in the man’s voice when he asks. “I’ve always had nightmares,” he answers evasively.

His father hums. “Have you spoken to anyone about them?”

“Extensively,” Will answers drily. “Turns out being the son of one of the most prolific serial killers in a generation gets you a lot of attention in the world of psychology.”

“You flatter me, son,” Will flinches. “But-”

Fortunately for him, one of the orderlies- Barney, he thinks- chooses that exact moment to open the door at the end of the hall.

“Mr. Graham?” He calls. “The hour is up.”

Will thinks those words are the sweetest music he’s ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter finished, and we're getting into the swing of things! No Abigail in this chapter- but don't worry, she'll have her turn soon enough.  
> In other news, I've set up an official Tumblr for my writing! You should definitely follow me here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/garrettxg for updates on this fic, my other fics, and my independent novels, as well as progress updates in between postings. I also take commissions, which, y'know, that's pretty cool. Anyway, you should all follow me so I feel less ~lonely~.  
> Poor Alana is honestly trying her best as a single parent. I'm rooting for her on this one. And Lecter is just low key proud that his son is able to take down a fully grown man in defense.  
> I hope everyone is still enjoying this, and please let me know what you guys think!


	8. The Family We Make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Abigail

    Will isn’t sure of what to make of the sudden change he sees in Abigail- his once energetic, positive friend withdrawing from him more and more. He knows something is wrong, but he can’t tell what.

    And then the first girl disappears. 

    She’s walking home when she disappears, from her middle school. No one sees her go, no one sees her get into anyone’s car, no one sees her get grabbed. There’s nothing missing from her personal belongings, so it’s assumed she didn’t run away.

    At first the news doesn’t strike Will as all that significant- people disappear all the time, after all. It’s only when he sees a picture of the missing girl that he feels his heart leap into his throat.

    She looks exactly like Abigail.

    They could be twins, in fact- same age, same height, same hair color- it’s a perfect match. And it sends chills running down Will’s spine.

_ Still,  _ he tries to reassure himself.  _ It’s not enough. It could be just a coincidence.  _

    He knows that it’s not.

    He also knows that there’s nothing he can do.

    And then, the next girl disappears. And the next. And the next. All taken the same way, disappearing quietly and without any witnesses, no bodies found. And they all look exactly like Abigail.

    The disappearances are spread out over the course of a few weeks, and before long Abigail’s not speaking to him at all- not out of spite, or anger, but something else. He finally understands what it was she was feeling, when her behavior first changed.

    It was fear.

    He feels guilty about it, but in a way he can’t even fully devote all of his attention to the problem- he is, after all, dealing with issues of his own. Once weekly visits with Hannibal Lecter. They’re surprisingly civil, for the most part, even ordinary. The doctor inquires after his health, about his studies- conversations you might expect.

    And then, because nothing in his life is ever constant, it changes.

*****

    “You seem distracted today, William,” his father comments at the beginning of one of their visits. It’s been two days since the last girl, Elise Nichols disappeared- and one day since her body was found returned in her bedroom.

    “Not particularly,” Will responds in an attempt to deflect. From the look his father gives him, he can tell that his lie is easily seen through.

    “Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?” Lecter prompts. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

    “I’m not here for therapy, Doctor Lecter,” Will snaps.

    “Indeed not,” Lecter agrees. “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t try to help my own son.”

    And there it is again- Lecter has, consistently over the course of their visits, insistently referred to Will as his son. Will can’t quite tell what his game is- trying to encourage any familial feelings? Or even nurturing a sense of dependency?

    He doesn’t know, and he’s not sure he wants to.

    “The Shrike,” he answers by way of explanation. 

    “Ah, the new serial killer terrorizing the Baltimore area,” Lecter expands. “Crawford’s the one leading the investigation on that case, correct? Has he consulted you?”

    “No,” Will scowls. “And shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? Have you forgotten I’m only twelve?”

    “Thirteen, actually,” Lecter corrects. “Your birthday was yesterday.” Will scowls again, realizing that he’s right- he’d already forgotten. Alana had taken him out to eat at his favorite pizza place, as well as gotten him a new fishing rod to replace his old one, which was nearly falling apart. “And I wouldn’t put it past Jack to enlist your help. He already has, in getting my cooperation. And no, he hasn’t asked me for my help on this case.”

    That makes Will frown. “Why? Girls are still disappearing- I would imagine they need help.”

    “I imagine it has to do with pride- that, or pressure from his superiors. He has consulted with me on his past two cases- I imagine the FBI wishes to avoid appearing dependent. Your Lounds would have a field day with that story if she knew.” He eyes Will curiously. “But what is it about this case in particular that bothers you, William? This is hardly the first serial killer you’ve seen.”

    Maybe, Will thinks, just maybe talking to Lecter could actually help. Could help him work through the confusion he feels trying to understand The Shrike.

    It’s that thought that drives him to be honest. “A lot of things. All of the girls- they all look exactly like my friend Abigail.” If Lecter is surprised that Will trusts him with this information, he doesn’t show it. “But it’s more than that. There’s something different about this- take, take Elise Nichols, for example. There was care there. He cared for her, in his own twisted way, he didn’t want her to suffer. He strangled her to death, a quick, and, in his eyes, relatively merciful way to do it. I don’t know this kind of psychopath, never read about him. I don’t even know if he’s a psychopath. He’s not insensitive, he’s not shallow. I don’t know.”

    Lecter watches him as the words spill out with an air of actual interest. When Will stops, he leans forward. “And what do you think his motivation is, Will?”

    “His… motivation?” Will repeats, thinking. “One of them is special- one of the girls- but he’s hiding her by using all of the others. Like, like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.”

    Very suddenly, Will becomes aware of the look in his father’s eyes. His gaze is focused intensely on him, and he looks- enraptured. Like Will just delivered the most riveting speech he’s ever heard. And in his eyes, Will thinks he sees a flicker of…

    Pride.

    He stands abruptly nearly knocking the chair over in his haste. “I’m sorry, Doctor Lecter, I have to go.”

    He doesn’t look back as he hurries down the hallway, and out the door.

*****

    Will tries not to think of his conversations with Lecter at the best of times- but tonight, as he lays in the darkness unable to sleep, he can’t help but turn their discussion over in his mind.

    He can’t deny it- speaking with Lecter, telling someone about what he’d realized about The Shrike- it had helped him work things out. More than before, at least. 

    And Lecter had been proud of him.

    He forces down the part of him that feels secretly pleased at that- because he shouldn’t be, should be so, so far from pleased that his psychopath of a father has any reason to be proud of him. And that’s true as well- part of him is revolted by the idea. These two feelings conflict inside him and just leave him feeling confused.

    The golden ticket, he thinks- the killings are going to keep happening until that girl is gone, and likely for  a while after to ensure that the true goal is properly hidden.

    Suddenly, he feels sick. Because if that’s the case, then Abigail is most definitely at risk.

    He makes up his mind to go and talk to her about it tomorrow, regardless of whether or not she wants to hear from him.

*****

    His trip to Abigail’s house is uneventful- Alana is a bit hesitant to let him walk alone given The Shrike’s assumed proximity to where they live, but relents when she sees the dead serious look on his face. It’s a beautiful day, too. The sun is out, but a few fluffy clouds still drift in the deep blue sky. 

    The house where Abigail lives with her mother and father is far in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and dirt roads. It takes nearly an hour to bike there in good conditions. There’s no one around for miles at any given time.

    The door opens as Will coasts up to the house, and for a moment, he thinks that Abigail must have seen him coming. But Abigail isn’t standing behind the door, it’s her parents, and-

    Her mother is bleeding. Badly. Blood is pouring from a wound in her neck as Abigail’s father pushes her out onto the porch and slams the door shut. It’s at that exact moment that Will knows he’s found The Shrike.

    And it might be too late.

    He doesn’t stop to think- he just moves, dismounting his bike quickly and running up to where the woman lies dying on the front porch.

    He’s not quick enough. She’s dead by the time he reaches her body, the life already fading from her eyes as her last breath leaves her.

    He bursts through the door, silently thanking any watching deities that her father didn’t lock it, and glances around frantically. He’s only been in Abigail’s house a few times- most of the time they go somewhere else, and even when they don’t they tend to just stay in her room. He doesn’t know the layout.

    But he hears voices coming from his left, and he darts down the hallway leading to them.

    He finds them in the kitchen- Abigail’s father holding her against himself, her eyes looking directly at Will when he enters, wide and pleading and terrified. Her father speaks in hushed, soothing tones, while Abigail herself whimpers and tries to pull away.

    There’s a knife at her throat.

    “Please, dad, please,” she begs, and Will can’t move. He has nothing to fight him off with, and Hobbs has a knife.

    But there’s another knife on the counter where someone- her mother, maybe- had been chopping up vegetables.

    Her father locks eyes with Will, and time seems to move in slow motion.

    He can’t recount, later on, exactly what happened. All he knows is, at some point he grabbed the knife on the counter, and succeeded in stabbing Garrett Jacob Hobbs just as he had begun to slice into his daughter’s throat. She fell to the ground, and Hobbs swung at him, clumsy and caught off guard by the sudden assault. He missed completely, and Will, surprised by his own strength, managed to stab him again. And before he knew it, he couldn’t stop himself- he was in a panicked frenzy, swinging the blade at Hobbs again and again, until at last he lodged it in a bone and lacked the strength to pull it out. Hobbs collapsed in a heap in the corner, looking directly at where his daughter lay gasping in a pool of her own blood.

    What Will can recall, with perfect clarity, is Hobbs’s last words. He’d watched Will as he desperately applied pressure to the gaping wound on his best friend’s throat, and once again, they locked eyes. And in a whispered, dying voice that Will knew he would never forget, he whispered one word.

    “See?”

    And Will saw.

*****

    A lot of people spoke to him after that, in quick succession. Police, paramedics, Alana, Crawford. Lounds tried to get in, if what Will heard later on was true. 

    Garrett Jacob Hobbs and his wife were dead before any of the first responders arrived. Abigail was in critical condition. Later that night, Alana informed him that she was in a coma- and that it was uncertain whether or not she would wake up. She held him in a tight hug, and told him that everything was going to be okay. Will didn’t cry. He couldn’t. He felt empty, wrung out and numb.

    A card arrived for him in the mail that night, addressed from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. A plain, cream colored card with nothing on the cover and only a few, small cursive words on the inside.

_ Happy Thirteenth Birthday, William _ , the card read. Only that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protect Abigail 2k17 honestly.  
> I've always viewed Abigail as a victim of her father almost as much as all the others, honestly, and in this AU it's just so much worse? Because she's just a child when it happens. And poor Will has to sit and watch it all happen.  
> Anyway, woo. I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter, please leave feedback so I know what everyone thinks! Seriously, it's sad how excited I get whenever someone leaves a comment.  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/garrettxg


	9. When Peering In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal talk, and some new information comes to light.

If Will had thought himself reclusive before, the problem had only worsened with recent events. He couldn’t tolerate it anymore- everyone who knew him always looked at him the same way, a mixture of pity and horror. He couldn’t deal with it.

Even Alana was the same, though she tried to hide it- he knew that she cared about him, of course, but she pitied him, just like everyone else. It made him feel sick- pity was the last thing he wanted. 

And it was exactly these feelings that started to draw him closer to Hannibal Lecter.

*****

He goes to the BSHCI for his regular visitation meeting the week following what happened with Hobbs, despite Alana’s vehement protests. It would be unhealthy, she argued, to see someone so manipulative so soon following such a sensitive, traumatic event. Will was willing to go, though- and Jack was more than willing to go against Alana’s advice if he thought it was for the greater good. Will resents that to, almost as much as he resents the pity.

His father smiles as he settles into the chair in front of the cell, a routine steadily growing more familiar. “Good morning, Doctor Lecter.”

His father gives him a small nod in response. “William. How have you been?”

It’s a complicated question with a complicated answer. In answering it, he feels less like it’s the courtesy thing it is with others and more like a type of test.

Like navigating a nest of rattlesnakes.

Though maybe it’s just paranoia.

“It’s been an eventful week,” he answers simply, while simultaneously not answering at all.

“So I’ve heard. How is Ms. Hobbs doing?’

“She’s…” he’d actually visited her, just the other night. He hadn’t been able to see her much so far- strict hospital regulations combined with the attempts of well-meaning adults to shield him from what they perceived as something that would stir up further trauma. “In a coma. Still.”

“I see,” his father comments. His face and voice don’t convey the proper solemnity the topic perhaps calls for. “Such a tragedy, what happened to that poor girl.You should prepare yourself for the eventuality that she doesn’t wake.”

His words strike Will like a slap, but he does his best not to show it. It’s somewhat easier given that he’s already considered the possibility- spent waking hours deep into the night turning the idea over in his head. “She’s being well taken care of.”

“Is that so. And what will become of her if she should wake up? She must be awfully alone. No mother and father, and so young. She has no one.”

“She has me,” Will protests.

“Yes, indeed. The boy who murdered her father.”

“It wasn’t murder. I had to do it.”

“Will she see it that way?”

“You know, given that I take time out of my day to come see you, you could at least try being civil,” Will dodges the question. He’d thought about that, too- he knew it wasn’t murder, of course. That was a fact he repeated to himself over and over again, and one that was repeated to him almost as many times by others. 

Well, save for the usual drivel from Freddie Lounds.

And though he could justify it to himself, he couldn’t find it in himself to be certain that Abigail would be able to see it that way. Yes, he may have saved her life, and yes, her father had been a dangerous killer, but the situation was more complicated than that. He had facts on his side, but sometimes emotions overrode facts so easily they may as well not exist.      

His father pauses a moment, looking thoughtful. “You’re correct, of course. I apologize.”   
Will looks at him, unable to contain his surprise. “What?”

“I’m sorry. You were right, I was needlessly hostile.”

“I- well,” Will isn’t entirely sure how to respond, given that he hadn’t expected this response at all. “I accept your apology.” He finishes awkwardly.

“I’m curious, son,” his father goes on as though nothing odd has occurred. “How has this event affected you? What you’ve experienced would be considered by most to be quite traumatic. Are you experiencing any disruptions in your normal life? Say, nightmares?”

Will nods shortly, wary of answering in any depth lest the answer be turned against him at the next change of Lecter’s tune.

“Well, that’s probably a good sign. At the very least, you’re reacting to this situation the way a normal child would,” his father explains. “What tends to be best for children who have experienced traumatic events is to return to their normal routines, so that’s what I would recommend for you. Support from friends and family is important as well, of course.”

Once again, Will finds himself surprised. “Are you… genuinely offering me advice?” Because as far as he could tell (and he did put a lot of stock in his empathy) the man was being completely sincere. It felt like an olive branch, extended as a gesture of goodwill.

But that was crazy, considering the source.

And yet, his father simply nods. “Of course. Despite what you may think, William, I want you to succeed in life. It’s natural for people to want to help their children.”

“Not people like you.”

“People like me,” Lecter muses. “Is there a word for us?”

“Some would call you a psychopath.”

His father looks at him with interest. “Interesting phrasing. ‘Some,’ implying that you wouldn’t. Tell me, what would you call me?”

“I don’t know,” Will admits. “You fit some of the characteristics of a psychopath, sure. Mostly superficial emotions, lack of remorse, lack of empathy, manipulative. But not all of them. You’re far from impulsive- you planned your killings out for months in advance. Not irresponsible either. Your crime scenes were absolutely meticulous. It seems to me that for every symptom you have, there’s another you lack. Classifying you as a psychopath would be-” he gropes around in his head for a proper word. “-lazy.”

“An interesting summary. You have a talent for this sort of thing, William.”

Quite against his desires, Will flushes at the praise.

“I would agree with you, as it happens.”

Will didn’t know if that made him feel better about his conclusion, or worse.

His father glances at the clock on the wall behind him. “I believe it’s about time for you to be leaving, William. Wouldn’t want to keep Uncle Jack waiting. But one more thing before you go,” he gives the boy a searching look. “You seemed today to be less eager to leave than you have before. Is there any reason for that?”

Will turns the question over in his head once or twice before answering. “Because you’re honest.”

“Honest?”

“With everything that’s happened recently- everyone around me has been faking. Pretending nothing happened, pretending that everything’s okay, even faking sympathy, some of them. But not you. You’re more honest about it. And you don’t pity me. It’s easier to deal with.”

And really, Will thinks, that he thinks his serial killer of a father is the easiest person is his life to deal with at the moment should concern him more.

*****

Crawford stops him and Alana as they exit the building, on the steps just outside the front doors.

“Will, I need to talk to you for a moment.”

“Not now Jack,” Alana says as Will asks “What do you need?”

Crawford glances back and forth between the two of them before settling his gaze on Will. “I need to know how you knew that Garrett Jacob Hobbs was the Shrike.”

Will shifts his weight uncomfortably. “I didn’t know. I guessed, based on what I did know.”

“And you didn’t think to tell anyone about your suspicious before you  _ went to the man’s house? _ ” The frustration in Jack’s voice is impossible to miss, and Alana shoots him a glare.

“Now isn’t the time to discuss this.”   
“N-no, it’s fine,” Will assures her. He glares at the man standing in front of him too now, indignant. “Would you have listened to me? It’s all of you that keep saying that I shouldn’t get involved with these things, that I can’t help- would you really have believed me? And even had I convinced you, there wasn’t time. Abigail’s life was in danger from the beginning. I had to get there to warn her as soon as possible.”

Crawford holds his gaze steadily. “Will, it’s not that I don’t think you’re intelligent enough. You’re just too young,” he shakes his head. “You  _ shouldn’t  _ be involved in this sort of thing. The only reason you’re here at all is because I think it’s necessary.”

“Then I’m already in it,” he argues. “So what’s the harm in involving me more? I could save more lives if you would just  _ let me!” _ His voice raises to practically a shout.

Crawford sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I understand you’re frustrated, but this is for the best. You should be getting home,” he adds hastily. “But there’s one more thing you should know.”

“What is it?” Alana asks warily.

“The day that you went to the Hobbs’s house- Garrett Jacob Hobbs received a call from an untraceable number. We believe that someone warned him that you knew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a long time coming, and for that, I apologize. Things got chaotic in my life for a while, what with Academic Decathlon and all. Sorry guys!  
> I hope it was worth the wait, at least. As usual, I hope you guys enjoyed, and I appreciate any feedback or comments you leave!  
> If you want updates on my writing, check out my blog.  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/garrettxg


	10. Xenization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will goes on a scavenger hunt.

He’s home.

It’s a normal morning, and he’s making breakfast with his family. His wife and daughter- it’s idealistic, domestic, the kind of scene no one expects to find a man like himself hiding in. 

The phone rings. His daughter is the one that picks it up, but before long she presses it into his hand, turning back to where her mother stands next to the stove, preparing a generous helping of scrambled eggs. 

He doesn’t recognize the voice on the other end of the line when it speaks.

“Garrett Jacob Hobbs?” It asks. There’s a foreign lilt to the voice, an accent that he can’t place. It sounds vaguely familiar, somehow.

“Yes?” He responds, throat suddenly and inexplicably dry.

“You don’t know me, and I suspect that we’ll never meet. This is a courtesy call.”

He feels his hand tighten almost unconsciously around the kitchen hand towel still in his grip.

“They know.”

And the world shifts beneath his feet.

*****

Will is used to nightmares.

They’ve always chased him- even in sleep, he doesn’t rest. Terrible dreams about murders and death- he sees his father die over and over again, feels life slipping out of him as a knife slips into his stomach- some of the psychologists he saw tried to treat him for the nightmares, but it didn’t work when he refused to take the meds they gave him.

He didn’t want to be treated like there was something wrong with him- even if it meant bringing more suffering onto himself.

But these were different. They were more  _ real,  _ somehow, these new ones. In them, he wasn’t just in Hobbs’s mind- he  _ was  _ Hobbs.

And he recognized the voice on the phone- the one that Crawford said had called.

It was his father’s.

*****

“Have they found them?” He asks the next day as he picks at the breakfast Alana set in front of him- scrambled eggs and bacon.

Somehow, he’s not hungry.

“Found who?” She asks, preoccupied with something on her laptop.

“The rest of the girls that Hobbs took,” he clarifies weakly, not meeting her eyes. She stops typing abruptly to look up at him.

“Will, you don’t need to worry about that. Let the police handle it. The danger is over.”

But was it? Was it ever? It seemed like every week there was some new killer on the loose, some new horror waiting just around the corner. It flowed like clockwork- there would be a new killer, and inevitably Jack would go to Dr. Lecter for help with profiling, while Alana tried to keep him as uninvolved as possible. Usually unsuccessfully. 

Sometimes he felt like a character in some kind of crime procedural. Except that he wasn’t being allowed to play his proper part- by all rights, in his mind, he should be the one profiling.

“So they haven’t been found, then?”

He hears Dr. Bloom sigh. “No, Will, they haven’t.”

*****

It’s that fact that takes him back to the Hobbs’ house- now standing empty and abandoned, forlorn. The front windows still yawn open, gaping at him like the eyes of the house.

He’s lucky that Dr. Bloom was busy that day- she’d left for the office quickly after breakfast, hardly a goodbye on her way out. It was unusually brusque for her, but it served him just fine.

The whole place is tainted with a haunted feeling now- not in a paranormal sense by any means. He’s never put much stock in such things. What he feels when he stands on the front porch is a kind of emotional haunting of sorts- that’s the best way to describe it. A terrible thing happened here, and it feels somehow like the memories sunk themselves into the floorboards, embedding themselves in as deeply in as-

Well, as the blood that stains the front porch.

There’s no chalk outline- though he should have expected that. They only leave those when the victim is still alive.   
It would have made him feel exponentially better to see one.

He walks past the stain, not looking at the place where just a few days ago a woman died choking on her own blood right in front of him. The door is unlocked- he pushes it open and walks into the vacant house.

It’s mostly untouched, looking almost exactly as the day he last left it.

He doesn’t go to the kitchen. He doesn’t even look in that direction. 

He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

He walks instead to the living room- a fairly plain, small room. A couch situated across from a fairly small television, decorated with a few homey throw pillows.

He closes his eyes. Tries to think about what Hobbs was like. Where he would hide the bodies.

It’s easier to slip into his mind than Will would like to admit.

A pendulum swings.

_ He was a hunter,  _ he starts, reciting the facts in his head.  _ He was used to butchering. Butchering… _

He squeezes his eyes shut more tightly, disgust rising up in his throat.

_ More than that- he loved them. He wouldn’t have- have wasted them. Any part of them. _

_ They’re here. In the house. _

_ What’s left of them. _

He opens his eyes, bringing himself back to reality, unable to take slipping into the mindset of another for any longer for fear of losing himself.

His legs are trembling, and he hastily lowers himself down onto the couch. He leans against the arm of the couch, one of the throw pillows sinking under his weight. It feels odd somehow, not the cotton that made up the rest of the couch, something- different. 

That, however, hardly registered in his mind at the moment.

_ He was eating them,  _ he repeats in his head.  _ No, not just him- he fed them to his family, to innocent people. He must have. Just like- _

His stomach churns in disgust.  _ -my father. But what did he do with the rest? _

There’s something wrong, and it’s only just at that moment that he realizes what it is.

Without sparing a moment to think further about what he’s doing he sits up and grabs the pillow that had been supporting him just a moment ago, and using as much strength as he can muster in his still shaky arms he rips it open.

Strands of long, dark brown hair fall out in clumps, out of the pillow and onto his lap and the floor.

He throws it off of his as quickly as he can, and before he can even make it to a restroom he throws up on the floor in front of him.

Maybe he should feel guilty for contaminating a crime scene, but he can’t find it in himself.

He doesn’t know how he finds the strength to do it, but he pulls himself off the couch and stumbles back into the front room. There’s a phone in here, on the wall- he saw it on his way in.

He picks it up, and dials the first number he thinks of.

“Hello?” Crawford picks up on the first ring. He sounds exhausted.

“I found them.”

“What? Found what? Who is this?” He demands.

“It’s Will. I- I know where the bodies are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah... it's me, and I'm actually alive! And with a new chapter! Fancy that! I'm... yeah, I'm super sorry about the long delay guys. I can't even justify it. Chronic depression is just super super fun.  
> Anyways, I'm just glad to finally be putting something out! I solemnly swear I'll do my best to get out new chapters for my two OTHER long-running fics and maybe get out some one shots. Within a decent amount of time, this time. I actually want to start another longer fic for this fandom too, so stay tuned for that if you're interested. And maybe a one shot or two as well- I've written too much for AA. I need to branch out more.  
> Thanks for bearing with me guys. As usual, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and I welcome feedback of any kind.  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/garrettxg


	11. The Only One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will starts something. Hannibal's the only one that notices.

It’s getting worse.

When Will really thinks about it, that one sentence could describe his entire life. A downward spiral, every step taking him somehow into even worse territory.

His nightmares- they’d been frequent before, far too much for his liking, but now it seems like he has them every night. In some, he’s back in the Hobbs’s house, watching as he’s unable to save Abigail from her father.

In some, he  _ is  _ her father. It’s those that are the worst.

That’s why he starts to lose sleep, he supposes. He’ll stay up late just to avoid his nightmares, to avoid going back to that house in his mind again and again.

He knows that Dr. Bloom can tell- can see the ever darkening bags under his eyes- but she doesn’t confront him. He’s grateful for that.

The first night he draws the little pocket knife across the skin of his arm, he doesn’t think anything of it- it’s just a one time thing, he thinks. The pain that springs up is just enough to draw him away from the chaos in his head.

But it doesn’t happen just once.

It never does.

*****

“Why don’t you tell me about your parents, William? Your mother, and the man who raised you.”

“Asking about my parents? That’s some lazy psychology, Doctor Lecter,” Will laughs lightly, tactfully ignoring his father’s obviously deliberate phrasing. “What about them? I mean, you already knew my mother.”

“Hardly. You’re old enough to realize by now that two people can have a child together without truly knowing one another.”   
Will hums in acquiescence. “My mother was- unreachable. She left when I was still in kindergarten.”

His father raises a questioning brow, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his face. “She left?”

Will shrugs, looking away. The subject isn’t one he likes to dwell on. It’s not exactly that he misses his mother- more like he misses the  _ concept  _ of her. The concept of unconditional love that was supposed to accompany motherhood. Her departure ate away at him for years- a mantra playing in his head whenever the subject was brought up  _ whywasn’tIgoodenoughwhydidn’tshelovemewhat’swrongwithme.  _ Even now, after all this time, it was as though there was an emptiness inside him. And in his mind’s eye, he could still see her disappointment- his earliest memory.

He just had a personality not even a mother could love, he thinks to himself, half out of a sense of dark humor and half in seriousness.

“She never really liked me,” it was something he hadn’t meant to confess to the man on the other side of the glass that spilled out, a truth that he’d only ever spoken in his own head. And once he’d let that out, it seemed too late to go back. “I, uh- got in trouble a lot. At school. My teachers thought that I had a  _ personality disorder.”  _ He barks out a bitter laugh at that. “They were probably right. Mom couldn’t take it, and one day, after she’d had to pick me up early from school again, she just- left. I haven’t seen her since.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

Were Will not distracted dealing with the roiling emotions inside him, he might have noticed the way Lecter’s jaw tightened during his little speech.

He doesn’t say anything, though, doesn’t prod- he knows that he has to be careful. He didn’t expect his son to so willingly give up information like that- if he presses too hard, he fears scaring him off further sharing. 

Will is a deer, easily frightened off, liable to bolt at the first sign of danger.

“Exactly what kind of things did you get in trouble for, Will?” He keeps his tone gentle as though he really is talking to a spooked animal, so much so that his words sound less like a question and more like a simple suggestion.

“I was too  _ morbid,  _ apparently,” he answers easily, too easily, really. “Honestly, it was… multiple things.  The time before mom left, it was because I’d drawn a picture of a crime scene I’d heard about on the news.”

“Your mother never understood you,” Lecter states bluntly. “She never even tried.”   
Will bobs his head in affirmation, eyes fixed to the floor.

“And the man who raised you? What was he like?”

At this, Will finally looks back up at him, a hint of steel in his eyes. “My  _ father,”  _ he starts deliberately. “Was different. He was…” His words trail off as he feels himself getting choked up, and he ducks his head down once again.

For several beats, there’s silence.

“It hasn’t been all that long since he died, has it?” Lecter asks softly, though he already knows the answer. “How are you coping, Will?”

“Why would you care?” Will asks- it’s a question that feels like it should be asked with venom behind it, but there’s nothing of the sort in Will’s voice- just an aching sense of emptiness.

“Is it so unbelievable that I might care about my own son?” 

Will snorts. “Yeah, actually. It’s unbelievable that you would care about anyone.”

“Surely you don’t really believe that,” Lecter admonishes. “It’s easy to convince yourself that people who have done things such as I have don’t possess normal human emotions- and for some, that may be true- but you know better. You empathize- you should see. Tell me, didn’t Garrett Jacob Hobbs feel love for his daughter?”

Will winces slightly at the mention of the name, taking his time to think over the answer. “He… felt something for her. But was it really love, Doctor-” he pauses momentarily at the slight change he sees in the man’s expression before correcting himself. “ _ Father,  _ or just infatuation- obsession?”

“Sometimes the line between the two is thin,” his father answers smoothly. “Even with your ability, can you really judge the authenticity of his emotions? What makes the things you feel more ‘right’ or ‘real’ than what he felt?”

“I-” He’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t thought about it before. “I don’t know.”

His father inclines his head. “No one does. You could just as easily assume your Doctor Bloom lacks the capability for depth of feeling as you could assume that I do.” The doubt must be plain on his face, because his father sighs. “This debate has no end- there’s no definitive way to measure. You’ll have to take my word for it, William- I  _ do  _ want what’s best for you.”

He smiles then, and despite himself, Will finds it reassuring. He relaxes a bit, leaning back into his chair.

“I’m coping fine,” he lies in response to the original question. His fingers twitch unconsciously towards the ends of his sleeves as he says it, and he prays that it escaped Lecter’s notice once he realizes his mistake.

But then again, when has he ever had any luck?

“A little hot outside for long sleeves, isn’t it?”

Will scowls at him, crossing his arms across his chest defensively. “You wouldn’t know,” he manages to bite out.

For just a moment, he sees his father’s calm mask flicker away to something more dangerous. It’s hardly anything- a microexpression, almost unnoticeable. Most people wouldn’t see it.

But Will sees it, and he shrinks back into his chair reflexively.

And as quick as his mask fell, it’s back up, like nothing ever happened.

“I may not be able to leave myself,” he smiles, but  there’s a hard edge to it. “But I did live in this area for years before my imprisonment, and I can safely say that I know the weather patterns.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Will can tell that he’s fiddling with his sleeves nervously now, but he can’t seem to bring himself to stop. “This was my last clean shirt.”

His father hums thoughtfully. “You’re a terrible liar, you know. You should work on that.”

Will scowls. “I’m not lying.”

“I see. So you’re not hiding anything on your arms?”

His scowl deepens. “No.”

“Prove it, then.”

Will feels helpless, standing there unable to do anything. He could deny, but he can’t prove it. The cuts on his arms seem to burn somehow under the attention.

Several seconds tick by before Will carefully starts to roll his sleeves up. He moves slowly, keeping his palms facing the wall to hide the cuts on the underside of his arm.

“See?” He says without looking up. “There’s nothing there.” He’s fairly confident that the cuts are hidden from sight based on how he holds his arms.

“And on the other side of your arms?”

He just can’t seem to win. There’s nothing he can say now- so he doesn’t say anything.

When his father speaks up again, his tone is gentler than before. “Does Doctor Bloom know?”   
Will shakes his head.

“Has she even asked how you’re coping?”

“She looks out for me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He shakes his head again.

“What about Jack? Has  _ he  _ asked how you’re doing, in between getting you involved with solving  _ his  _ cases?”

Will looks up sharply. “Are you trying to isolate me from them?”

His father puts his hands up, feigning innocence. “I’m simply concerned for you, son. From what I can tell,” he pauses, holding Will’s gaze. “I’m the only one that really notices how you’re doing.”

*****

_ “From what I can tell, I’m the only one that really notices how you’re doing.” _

Several days have passed since that last conversation with his father- and somehow what he said hasn’t left him.

It can’t be true- Will knows that. Of course there are other people that notice- he has people that care about him.

But the more he thinks about it, the more it digs under his skin.

_ Does  _ anyone else notice that he’s not okay? Alana seems concerned about him, but she always seems busy with one thing or another- and sometimes, her ways of trying to help him just seem to make things worse. If she thinks something will upset him, she just tries to hide it.

Will hates that.

And Jack- well, he supposes he can’t exactly  _ blame  _ him for that. It’s not like he knows the man all that well. And he knows for a fact that he’s busy- hell, they seem to have a new killer every week. But Hannibal did have a point about him consistently getting Will involved.

And who else was there? Abigail? She’s still in a coma- and even when ( _ when _ , not if, he insists in his mind), how will she forgive him for what he had to do?

Maybe Hannibal really is the only one that cares.

The really scary thing is, the thought doesn’t frighten him nearly as much as it would have once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me again, back from the dead! Good news- it's spring break, so maybe I'll finally stop being a piece of shit and start updating my fics more often!  
> Bad news, Nier: Automata just came out, and I'm addicted.  
> So, in an attempt to make up for the lateness of this chapter, I'll drop some information about what this series is going to be. For one thing, this is the first part of a trilogy. This section of the trilogy is going to last upwards of twenty chapters, possibly much more- it's kind of up in the air. I'm not going to give any spoilers, though, sorry guys.  
> Thanks for bearing with me, and thanks to everyone who's subscribed, left kudos, and commented- it means a lot, and without y'all's support this fic wouldn't have gone on. As usual, I welcome any and all feedback.  
> https://garrettxg.tumblr.com/  
> Follow my blog for updates on my writing, or use it to send me prompts you want to see written!


	12. What's Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prior decision is reversed.

“Gregory Olmstead’s dead.”

Will looks up blearily from the untouched bowl of cereal in front of him, still trying in vain to blink the sleep out of his eyes as Crawford pushes his way into the room. Alana follows closely behind, looking concerned. It’s not an uncommon look for her.

“Good morning to you too,” Will answers after a moment of extended silence, swirling his spoon through the milk without making any sign that he intends to eat.

Crawford gives him a harsh look. “This is serious, Will.”

“It was self defense,” Will argues blandly, looking away. He feels curiously numb.

“The wounds you inflicted weren’t what killed him.”

_ That  _ managed to pique Will’s interest. “If not that- then what?”

Looking closer at Crawford, less inhibited by the draining remainder of sleep, Will notices that the man looks troubled- more so than usual, that is. Troubled, concerned- when he thinks about it, he sees those emotions on the faces of the adults he interacts with often.

At least they’re consistent, he supposes.

Crawford sighs, shaking his head. “Someone managed to sneak into his hospital room, disguised as a doctor. We- didn’t have security on the room. Olmstead wasn’t a flight risk- the man was in a coma, and handcuffed to the bed on top of that. We also had no reason to believe anyone would want him dead.”

That didn’t surprise Will- an uncomfortable number of people, judging by the comments he’d read on articles about the incident, seemed to believe Olmstead’s actions were, at the least, understandable. “Like father, like son,” seemed to be the sentiment amongst that group.

“Why?” Will asks as these thoughts flash through his head. “Why kill him?”

Crawford drums his fingers on the table. “Well, the man himself won’t say a damn word, but it seems pretty obvious. He was a guard at the BSHCI- one that, upon reviewing security records, had been spending time with Doctor Lecter.”

It feels to Will as though his throat goes dry in a matter of seconds. “So you think…”

Crawford picks up where Will trails off. “-that Lecter convinced the man to commit murder? Seems damn likely,” he sighs, an aura of exhaustion about him. “Not the first time something like this has happened.”

Will tactfully decides to leave that last sentence alone, curious though he is. Somehow, Crawford doesn’t seem in the mood to answer questions.

Will fiddles with the buttons on his shirt, dying to ask the question on the tip of his tongue yet dreading the answer he may get. He wishes in his head that Barry was besides him.

Barry had, since Will adopted him, begun growing at a fantastic speed, and what’s more, become a source of strength and comfort for him. The dog, for his part, seemed equally as happy to spend his time with Will. Will couldn’t say the same about most people he met.

Barry was outside, and Will was alone. Alone to face whatever answer he may get from what he knows he has to ask.

“If you already know that- why are you here, then?”

Crawford opens his mouth to answer, only to be cut off by Alana clearing her throat expectantly. He nods to her, seemingly content to defer to her. 

“Will, we think it’s best that you indefinitely stop all communication with Doctor Lecter.”

“What?” Will glances back to Crawford as though hoping for something different, but the man just nods in confirmation. For once, it seems, the two of them are in agreement. “You can’t just- decide that without me!”

Crawford just raises a questioning brow. “Are you saying you  _ want  _ to continue seeing Lecter?”

Hearing it laid out so plainly- he starts to backtrack almost instantly. “Not- not exactly. I just- want to help…”

“Is that really it? You know you can trust us, Will,” Alana tries to reassure him. Will swallows hard, realizing that they don’t believe him.

Crawford leans in across the table. “Will, we understand that you may feel as though you- have some sort of  _ relationship  _ with your father, but that kind of man simply isn’t capable of forming emotional attachments.”

“You don’t know that,” Will whispers before he even realizes what he’s saying. Crawford just looks at him with dwindling patience in his eyes.

Alana looks distinctly upset by his words.

“Will, the man’s been examined by some of the most expert psychiatrists in the world. We’re confident in the psych profile we have of him-”

“I don’t think you know anything about him that he doesn’t want you to know, and I doubt that half of what you think you know is even accurate.”

“Will-”

Will ignores the warning he hears in her voice, turning back to Crawford. “You can’t just stop this now. You  _ can’t _ .”

“We can, Will. This is for your own safety.”

“And what about the safety of the people whose  _ lives  _ he helped you to save?”

“This is  _ not  _ up for discussion, Will!” Alana raises her voice. “You’re obviously in no state to decide this for yourself.”

Will grits his teeth in frustration. It’s only just then that he feels the metal of the spoon in his hand digging painfully into his skin, his grip too tight. He drops it suddenly, and it clatters to the bowl with a loud clanking sound. A few drops of milk spill over the edge, dripping onto the table. Will stares down at the table angrily, before sighing. 

“Fine,” he looks back up. “Is that- the only reason you’re here?”

Crawford nods shortly. “It’s my fault you got into this, so I thought I should be the one to get you out.” He pushes back his chair then, rising as he does. He makes his way around the small table and grips Will’s shoulder in a way the boy is sure is meant to be comforting.

It falls short.

“I’m sorry, Will,” he lets go awkwardly, before turning back around and walking out. He only stops to acknowledge Alana as he leaves, with a simple nod.

Alana takes the seat Crawford had vacated as soon as he’s gone. “Will-”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he steadfastly avoids her gaze.

“No, but we should,” she insists. “Will, I think we need to start you in therapy again.”

“No.”

“Will-”

“No!” He stands abruptly, chair clattering back behind him as he does.

He regrets lashing out almost instantly, but refuses to say so, digging his nails into his palms. “I- I don’t want anyone in my head.”

He hears Alana sigh. “They can help you, Will.”

“I don’t need help,” he mutters, and before she has time to say anything else he runs out the back door. Moving quickly, he pushes through the back gate and rushes through the streets of the suburbs. Faintly, he thinks he hears Alana calling after him, but he can’t make himself stop.

He needs air.

*****

He’s in the woods by the time he finally stops running. Not far in- if he listened very closely, he could still hear the occasional sounds of cars passing.

Air. He needs air.

He sits down on the dirt of the forest floor- more collapses, really, legs practically giving out from exhaustion.

He knows he needs to think about what happened, about what’s going to happen. 

Did he really just defend Hannibal Lecter to Alana and Crawford?

To  _ Crawford,  _ of all people. What was he thinking?

He wasn’t, he can’t have been. He was emotional. Emotional over-

He’d promised himself when this started that he wouldn’t let himself get emotionally invested. And he’d failed that.

He wasn’t sure why. Truthfully, he wasn’t even sure what he believed what he told Crawford and Alana. Maybe- and maybe it was even likely- his father really  _ couldn’t  _ feel anything. Maybe any familial feelings were one-sided.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. The truth, the sickening, uncomfortable truth, is that Lecter is the only one who makes him feel like he isn’t inherently broken or damaged in some irreparable way.

And maybe that’s the biggest proof that he really is broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah hey it's me, not dead, alive, and updating!  
> I feel like I'm gonna become a cryptid at this rate with the terrible gaps between my updates. Like "Oh yeah I saw thepolyhedron at Denny's at three am on a wednesday night staring at a blank word document." So uh, sorry guys. My life's gotten pretty chaotic with college shit recently, and y'know, there's that good old 'major depressive disorder'. So there are my excuses at least.  
> As usual, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and thanks for everyone that's stuck with it this far. I welcome any and all feedback.  
> Here's my blog to follow for updates on this and any of my other projects:  
> https://garrettxg.tumblr.com/  
> Oh, and one more thing before I go: I'd like to go ahead and state that despite what may occasionally be long gaps between updates (though hopefully I'll eventually GET MY SHIT TOGETHER), I will NOT abandon any of my fics. If I start one, I'm going to finish it for sure. So you know, if you're invested in one of them- no worries.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, the start of my first work in a new fandom! Pretty nervous to see how this one is received- I hope everyone enjoys it!  
> If there's enough interest, this is probably going to be a fairly long fic, spanning years as Will grows up and comes to work with the police- and with Hannibal, of course.  
> Please, leave feedback so I know how I did!


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